


Wax Wings

by theredanemone



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: CyncoWeek2017, F/M, Flashpoint AU, Needles, RomCom AU, Terminal Illnesses, Undercover reporter, more rom than com tbh, ramon industries, some nsfw talk but no action sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:18:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredanemone/pseuds/theredanemone
Summary: Cynthia Reynolds is a budding reporter for CCPN, slogging through the society pages.  Eager to make her mark, she sets her sights on the mysteries of Ramon Industries, and its young CEO, Cisco Ramon.  But what she finds there isn't anything she expected...Makeovers!  Ghosts!  Exes!  Love is hard, you guys!





	1. It takes a spark...

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly, my Spanish has always been weak. Whatever Spanish used throughout this work is meant to mimic the language and interactions as I've grown up hearing it in a Mexican-Cuban household.

In the ink and type world of journalism, investigative reporting was where the history was made.  The botox laden TV anchors that became household names may have had a monopoly on fame and fortune, but Cynthia Reynolds was in it for the glory, and she always said that she would rather grace the history books than the seven o'clock news.  Brushed off as being too ambitious for someone so pretty, Cynthia had grown up into the type of woman who could smile through your patronizing bullshit once, and made sure you ate it if you dared to try it twice.  

She ran her school papers that way, she aced college that way, and she liked to think she got her position at Central City Picture News straight out of school that way, too.  

If she hadn't, no one would've been stupid enough to say so.

While she was certainly confident enough when she tried out for the job, Cynthia was still floored when it actually came through.  She supposed CCPN simply knew an enterprising young woman when they saw one. After all, it was the only paper in the region with a woman running the sports page.  Aside from Linda Park, the paper had Iris friggin’ West on the roster, the first person to report on the Flash and compile information on the city's first metahumans.  And she did all that from a damn blog.  

Call it youthful naiveté, but Cynthia Reynolds had walked into her first day at CCPN with big dreams.

But that was three months ago. 

And she'd spent virtually all of it working the soul sucking, brain atrophying society pages.

In a city where speedsters were the norm, villains wore costumes, and Larry down the street could probably shoot fire out of his eyes for all you knew, she was stuck on page twelve, reporting on some one-percenter’s latest sex scandal.  The irony.

In fact, it was the irony that had her face down at her desk before her first cup of coffee could even grow cold.  The clicking sound of heels approached her desk and she didn't need to raise her head to know who her visitors were.

“Trouble in high society?” Iris chimed at her.  Linda playfully patted her head in sympathy.

“I'll say,” Cynthia mumbled from her makeshift pillow. “Stephanie Normandy showed up at the mid season gala in the same dress as Tiffany Shelley.”  She lifted her head to meet Iris’ amused face dead on.  “It's obviously the _ worst _ .”

Iris and Linda had no qualms about laughing at Cynthia's expense, and Cynthia liked them enough to let them.  

“What brings you to my desolate island, ladies?” she asked blandly.

“Linda and I,” Iris said, gesturing dramatically to her cohort, “were thinking about kidnapping you for lunch today!”

“And before you even think about saying no,” Linda piped in, just as Cynthia began to roll her eyes, “let me just remind you that we are  _ definitely  _ better company than Stephanie-Tiffany-whatever their names are.”

She would usually say no, opting instead to refuel with a shake or a salad from home at her desk in some passive display of her unflappable work ethic.  But she looked down at her notes, the several scribbled drafts where she tried in vain to stretch a simple “who wore it better” segment into a five hundred word panel.

“Fine, I'll let you win today,” Cynthia huffed. Not like she had much fight in her today anyways. 

One o'clock approached, and Iris and Linda strolled to her desk in unison, tossing Cynthia's coat at her and all but dragged her to some upscale bistro several blocks away.  She sat across from them and listened to their spirited banter, half heartedly picking at a sandwich that she'd paid too much for.  

When she'd first starting working with CCPN, Cynthia had quickly formed the opinion that Iris and Linda played way too much to ever be truly serious about their craft.  It was off putting; she'd come onto the job expecting bosses, and she thought they were playing sorority house.  It was a misguided opinion that she had quickly come to swallow.

Iris West was a young legend in the making.  Her mysterious connection to the Flash aside, the woman lived and breathed field reporting.  If she took off suddenly from the office, it was because she had boots, or in her case heels, on the ground somewhere.

Linda Park may deal in games and sports for a living, but she was a stone cold professional, and a natural born leader through and through.  She had to be, if she was ever going to stand a chance at defending what she'd worked for from guys who believed it was theirs by right. 

Writing the news could be an ugly business.  Iris couldn't have had it easy trying to maintain objectivity when writing about all the horrible ways people could be killed or exploited in a city like theirs.  Even Linda had to sometimes choke down the indignity of having to lend a positive light to the abusive misogynists that sports leagues threw their money at.  That these women managed to band together and keep a sense of humor at the end of the day made them the toughest in the business.  That they'd not hesitated to invite her in made them her friends.

Today, though, Cynthia found herself feeling envious. 

“What's on your mind, Cyn?  You look pensive,” Linda asked her.

Cynthia crossed her arms onto the table and leaned in.

“Do you guys ever get sick of what you're doing for the paper?” she asked.

“Mmmm, nope,” said Iris.

“Nah,” from Linda.

“Well, I do,” Cynthia pressed. “I mean I'm on the damn society pages, day in and day out, reporting on ass implants and some trophy wife's latest charity auction.”

“Hey! Those ass implants are your bread and butter!” Linda said loudly, fishing for a laugh.  

Iris slapped her arm.  “What Linda's  _ trying _ to say, is that it can't be that bad, and if it's paying your bills…”

“I know that it pays my bills!” Cynthia snapped. “But damn, it's not like I'm proud to tell my mom that I'm peddling in  _ chisme. _ ”

“Well, what would you rather be doing?” Iris mumbled from around her drinking straw.

“I don't know. Not this. I always thought I'd be doing what you're doing.”

Iris and Linda seemed to mull that around. Linda spoke first.

“Look, I don't want to sound insensitive, but you're still green.  I started out like girl Friday, running coffee and proofreading for my boss. It sucks, but it's what we've gotta do.”

Iris nodded softly.  “I'm not gonna pretend that I went through what you two did,” she said, “If it wasn't for the Flash, I probably would have.  There's nothing wrong with wanting more, but sometimes you gotta deal with what's realistic.”

Cynthia couldn't help but frown.  “So you guys think that I'm asking for too much?”

Linda took a long drag of soda before responding.  

“What if you don't ask?”

Cynthia narrowed her eyes in confusion, but Iris quirked up a brow. 

“Linda might be right,” she said, “Maybe instead of waiting for them to pull you off the society pages, you do it yourself?”

“You mean go on strike?” Cynthia asked incredulously.

Iris shook her head and leaned in, “I mean maybe write something fresh!  A good exposé could be just what you need to show them what you can do!”

Linda was nodding.  “Mmhm! A little initiative could go a long way.  Just look at Iris.”

“Aww, thanks, honey!” Iris cooed at Linda fawningly, all seriousness abandoned. 

“No problem, baby,” Linda replied with a wink.

Cynthia rolled her eyes.

\----

 

Hours later, in the middle of the night, Cynthia lay in bed with her eyes wide open, sleep being the furthest thing from her mind.

A little initiative. A good exposé. How the hell was she going to come up with an exposé piece while she was working those damn society pages? 

She got out of bed, slipped into her robe, and made her way to her desk.  Under the lamplight, she pored over the pages and pages of profiles and pictures of high society figures that she'd had to collect for her work.  Wives, ex wives, business partners, attention seeking, rich, yacht owning kids, she had pieces on them all.  Whatever scandals these people were milking for screen time was already well documented, with some even crafting headline worthy antics on purpose themselves.  But Cynthia didn't want another scandal.  Exposés needed meat, not chaff, and no sexcapade was going to give that to her.  

She spent another hour flipping through magazines and old papers for inspiration.  Maybe the Petersons were pocketing government grants through their charities! Or maybe the Thompson firm was embezzling for their clients? Nothing was really speaking to her gut.

Ready to give up, a picture peeking out from one of her piles caught her eye.  Amongst the sea of bland faces smeared in self tanner and lip plumper was a small picture of a brown skinned young man in profile, wearing glasses, his long dark hair tied back in a neat bun.  There was no mistaking the face; everyone in Central City knew him. Cynthia pulled the open magazine out from under the stack to get a better look. 

_ Top Ten Entrepreneurs of the Decade _

And Francisco Ramon was ranked number one.  

Which was ironic, because the blurb beside his picture was the smallest of the bunch.  

“Catapulted into fortune following the success of his tech apps, Francisco Ramon acquired S.T.A.R Labs in 2015 and founded Ramon Industries in his hometown of Central City, all before his 26th birthday.”

And that was it.  

The more she thought about it, the more Cynthia realized just how little information there was out there for the public to see about Francisco Ramon.  The man was practically a cryptid by high society standards, refusing more pictures than he allowed, and his interviews were few and far in between.  She knew that he was something of a local hero, one of Central City's proudest sons, and was widely cited as an example of a true bootstrap narrative.  A Google search was only able to pull up a handful of original photos of him from various publicized events, always in the company of a tall, beautiful woman in various ensembles of pink.  The Pink Lady, one Melinda Torres, apparently had a burgeoning social media following, her proximity to Ramon’s wealth and stature making her a small time fashion icon online, but all of her posts were either selfies or red carpet shots, none containing Ramon himself.  Cynthia managed to find a short clip from an interview he granted to Digital Trends earlier in the year.  She wasn’t sure if it was the lull of one a.m, or if she just wasn’t that tech minded, but something about the large scale uses of 3D printing was just flowing into one ear and out the other.  She watched the video four times and couldn’t, for the life of her, grasp anything that the man was saying.

But from what she could tell, Francisco Ramon certainly  _ seemed _ personable enough; he was well spoken, clearly well versed in his field, charming, and had an easy going smile.  So what was the deal?  Why all the secrecy?  For such a well known local celebrity, why was he lacking a public presence?

_ Harrison Wells had secrets _ , Cynthia thought.  

The magazine blurb said that Ramon “acquired” S.T.A.R Labs, but that was putting it mildly.  Francisco Ramon had been one of Harrison Wells’ top engineers.  For whatever reason, Ramon had broke off from the company and went solo.  He only returned to buy it out, after Wells went full blown mad scientist and tried to blow a hole in the middle of the city.  Investors dropped off, Ramon bought the company for cheap, and Ramon Industries was born, absorbing all the patents and secrets Wells had hidden in the walls.  

_ Whatever crazy shit Wells had going on, Ramon’s probably hoarding it. _

The thought sparked an idea.

 


	2. Unorthodox

“Ahem!”  
Iris stiffened at the sound, slowly rotating in her chair to take in her obnoxiously passive aggressive friend, holding something behind her back that she was no doubt going to spring on Iris at any second.  
“Yes, Cynthia? How may I help you, ma’am?”  
“Keep your voice down.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I have an idea that I wanna run by you but I need you to, you know, keep it a little hush-hush, if you know what I mean?”  
It really wasn’t like Cynthia to play at being mysterious; that was Iris and Linda’s gag. Iris gave her a once over. Was she pale?  
“So I thought about what you and Linda said,” Cynthia went on. “And I want you to take a look at this!”  
She whipped a blue binder out from behind her back and shoved it towards Iris’ thoroughly baffled face. Perplexed, and a little cautious, Iris took it and peeked inside.  
“There’s only two pages in here.”  
“Exactly!”  
“Exactly what? What even is this, Cyn?”  
“That is all the info that I could find about Francisco Ramon.”  
Iris got a good look at Cynthia’s dark and sunken eyes. “Girl, did you stay up all night making this?”  
“I mean, two pages? Two? That’s it? What’s the story with this guy? What do you think?”  
“I think you wasted a binder.”  
“C’mon, Iris!”  
“Well, Cyn, what do you want me to say? I mean, you seem to have wasted an awful lot of time digging up Cisco Ramon’s eighth grade science fair pictures, but you haven’t bothered to tell me what your idea even is!”  
“The idea,” Cynthia lowered her voice, “is for me to start a you-know-what into you-know-who!”  
Iris struggled to keep her face still, lest Cynthia see the sudden panic that was creeping into her from the understanding.  
“An investigation?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.  
Cynthia nodded. “Investigation, exposé, whatever you wanna call it, but yeah! Look, the way I see it, Ramon took over Harrison Wells’ building, his projects, everything. That means that he knows where the bodies are buried! I think, that with enough digging, I could find out what exactly those two were hiding in there! Up to and including any actual bodies, because let’s be honest-”  
“No, Cyn,” Iris said firmly.  
Cynthia’s face fell. “No, what?”  
Iris treaded softly. “I’m saying no, this is...not the best idea.”  
“Why not?”  
Because my kid brother is a superhero and I strong armed Cisco Ramon into making his suit. Iris opted not to answer, instead asking, “What does Linda think about all this?”  
“Oh, I haven’t told her yet,” Cynthia replied, oblivious to the pointed change of subject. “But I know her, she’ll be on board with this.”  
\----  
“Nope! Bad idea!” Linda concluded firmly, taking a swig of her coffee as if the matter was completely settled. Iris couldn't believe her luck. Cynthia couldn't seem to believe it either.  
“You know what, I don't get you two!” she cried in frustration.  
They were in Jitters for lunch this time. Iris insisted, claiming that their sleep deprived friend had grown maniacal and clearly needed her coffee. Though it didn't seem to be changing Cynthia's mind.  
“You know, you two give me the whole Ya-Ya Sisterhood inspiration thing,” she went on, “and then shut me down when I listen? What the hell for?”  
Linda licked her lips and leaned forward, like some old timer about to school a youngster.  
“Cynthia,” she began, ”You ever hear of a little fella called Icarus? Wax wings? Flew too close to the sun, fell down, went splat?”  
“I'm not Icarus.”  
“Not yet. That's why we're trying to stop you,” said Linda, suddenly serious. “Francisco Ramon is a big deal in this city, Cyn. You miss the mark on this one, it can end you.”  
“Linda's right,” Iris chimed in quickly, grateful for the cover. “Look, we're not trying to tell you to give up altogether! Just that, this may be too big for you.” Cynthia's eyes seemed to darken at that. Desperate, Iris tried to change tact. “And I mean c’mon girl, you're too smart to be Icarus!”  
“What about Icarus? I love that guy!” a man’s voice cut in, and seemingly out of nowhere, Wally West was at their table. Iris felt a pang of anxiety at suddenly having him so close to the conversation. Linda's eyes hardened and she pursed her lips, a picture of the utmost disinterest. Meanwhile, Cynthia couldn't look any grumpier than she already did, making Wally's cheery schoolboy demeanor the odd tone out.  
Undeterred, Iris’ little brother greeted them in turn.  
“‘Sup, sis! Cynthia.”  
She nodded tersely.  
“Linda?” he offered with a cocksure grin.  
Linda regarded him from the side of her eye. “Wallace.”  
“Well, what's up ladies? What's all this talk about Icarus?” Wally asked, rubbing his hands together eagerly. Iris was suddenly struck with inspiration.  
“Well, Wally, Cynthia here,” she began, hoping to catch his eye, “is thinking about opening her own investigation into the secrets over at Ramon Industries!”  
Cynthia glared at her incredulously. “Tell everyone, why don't you?”  
“Oh! That sounds cool!”, Wally exclaimed with a smile. Cynthia's glower immediately softened and she seemed to regard him with satisfaction.  
“No, Wally,” his sister snapped, “that's not cool!” You idiot!, she wanted to scream.  
Wally met her intensely pointed stare with confusion, and she widened her eyes at him, desperately wishing that she could will some common sense into his brain.  
“Oh,” he said softly, his eyes shooting wide open when he finally got it. “Ooooh!”  
It was all Iris could do to keep from rolling her eyes at him.  
He turned back to Cynthia.  
“Uh, yeah, um, Iris is right, that-that's not a good idea,” he tried. Even Linda looked lost at this point.  
“And why is that, Wallace?” Cynthia prompted him sternly.  
Wally whipped back to his sister, fishing for help. “Because of, um, Icarus, you know, you don't wanna be like Icarus.” Iris tried to hold herself together, even as she was dying inside.  
“Because?” Cynthia pressed, watching them both suspiciously.  
“Because he...flew too close to the sun, and um, he didn't make it.”  
Linda threw the poor kid a line. “Francisco Ramon being the sun in this analogy.”  
“Right! Yeah yeah, no, I- I get that. Now. Mhm.”  
The fastest man alive, everyone, Iris couldn't help but think.  
Cynthia shook her head in disbelief. “Fine. Great! You know what? Keep your little analogy.”  
She gathered her bag and coat before dropping down from her stool.  
“At least Icarus had the guts to try!”  
Iris feebly tried to reach for her but Cynthia wasn't having it. She was gone.  
Linda turned to Wally.  
“Nice one, Wallace.”  
The poor kid looked so lost.  
\----

Cynthia sat and sulked in her car, parked in the visitor’s lot of Ramon Industries, the angular, contemporary structure looming over her menacingly. She’d driven there in a huff, fueled by caffeine, adrenaline, and frustration, hell bent on showing Iris and Linda that nothing was “too big for her”. But now, from where she was sitting, the building really was much bigger than she thought, and she found herself sinking into her seat despite herself.  
What was she doing here, really? She didn’t have a plan, and ideas always seemed better when they were intangible. If these were normal circumstances, Cynthia would have had the support and guidance of an editor on her side, but stalking a billionaire in the hopes of validating some urban legend wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you pitch to your boss.  
She was on her own.  
So very, very alone.  
There’s so many people here, she thought nervously. And Francisco Ramon is the boss of them all. How the hell did she think she was going to get close enough to him to make this work? What if she walked out with nothing but egg on her face?  
What’s the harm in that?, she wondered. No one else at the paper knows about this but Linda and Iris. Best case scenario, I come out of this with something meaty enough that it can’t be shot down. Worst, I walk out of here with nothing, today.  
She drew a deep breath and climbed out of her car.  
“Icarus, my ass!”  
\----

Linda took off shortly after Cynthia stormed out of Jitters, with Iris promising to meet her back at the office in a little while. She needed an urgent word with her little brother, and once out of the coffee shop, Iris yanked Wally into a nearby alley where they could be alone.  
“What the hell happened to you in there, Wally?!”, she snapped, slapping his arm.  
“I honestly thought it was a good idea! How was I supposed to know you guys were trying to stop her? You tried to do the same thing once upon a time, remember?” he said accusingly.  
“Need I remind you of where your suit comes from?”, Iris threw back, keeping her voice low. “I only threatened Cisco Ramon so he’d make it for you in the first place!”  
“So what’s the big deal then? Cynthia doesn’t know that we know him, and it’s not like he’s going to tell her! What do you think she’s going to find? I’m too fast for the security cams to catch.”  
“You are, but I’m not, and I’ve been in that building just as much as you have,” Iris tried to explain. “What if Cyn finds footage of me in there, what am I gonna tell her? What if she finds sketches of the suit? What if she gets caught, and Cisco thinks that we sent her in there to get the story and he exposes us himself because we backed out of the deal? Hm? What then, Wally?”  
Wally’s face fell. “Okay, I get it. So what do we do?”  
Iris sighed and thought for a moment. “Hopefully, we won’t need to do anything. I mean, we can try to convince her to let it go, but either way, she has to pitch the idea to Evans if she wants to start an investigation into anyone. And trust me, he’s not about to say yes.”  
Wally spread his arms out in victory. “Okay, then! No worries! We’re clear!”  
Iris made a sound of disgust in her throat at his carefree attitude, just as her phone started to ring. She pulled it from her coat pocket and saw the glowing picture of Linda in her oversized New Year’s 2017 shades and noisemaker hanging from her mouth.  
Wally’s goofy face split into a wide smile. “Is that Linda calling?”  
“Yes! It is! No, I’m not putting in a good word for you!”  
“Ah, c’mon,” Wally whined as she answered the phone.  
“Yeah, Linda?”  
“Hey! Um, I don’t know if we should be worried,” said Linda, “but, Cynthia hasn’t come back yet.”  
“What? Wally shut up, I can’t hear!” Iris hissed, her brother making loud smooching sounds right next to her.  
“I said Cynthia is not here! She should’ve made it back before me, but no one’s seen her! You don’t think she’d...you know…”  
“Oh my god…”  
\----

Cynthia stood in line within the atrium of Ramon Industries, guests being required to sign in at a security checkpoint just ahead. Employees in their best business casual slacks and oxfords zipped past her, bypassing the screening with a tap of an ID card at a series of automatic gates. She wished that she knew how to pickpocket; every second she waited in line, the weaker her nerve became. After several agonizing minutes, it was finally her turn, and she found herself face to face with a bored looking, middle aged white man, with a very shiny bald spot.  
“Welcome to Ramon Industries,” he droned monotonously, “please state your name and the reason for your visit.”  
Shit!, she thought. I can’t give my real name, why did I do this to myself?  
“My name…,” Cynthia scoured her mind for a substitute, “...is Cyn...dy...Rrrr-odriguez. Cyndi Rodriguez. Yep.” ¡Tonta! You couldn’t do any better than that?  
“Reason for your visit?”  
“Business.”  
“I’m going to need for you to be more specific.”  
“I, um, have an appointment to see Mr. Ramon.”  
“Mr. Ramon doesn’t have any appointments scheduled for today,” the man told her, glancing down at a binder open on his podium. In it, she could pick out an empty schedule template and a list with names and occupations.  
“It wasn’t an official appointment,” she said quickly. “We spoke on the phone and he promised to squeeze me in today if he had the time.”  
“What’s the nature of your business?”, asked the man, eyes still on his papers.  
Fortunately, Cynthia could read upside down. Desperately scanning the guard’s papers for inspiration, her eyes zeroed in on a phrase. Brand Imaging Consultant.  
“I’m an image consultant,” she declared as confidently as she could. For a single moment, she thought the guard wouldn’t buy it, but the man looked her over from top to bottom, and whatever he saw there seemed to convince him.  
“Okay then, Ms. Rodriguez, please look into this little camera here for a second, there we go.” He printed out a sticker with her new name and a picture of her wide-eyed, open mouthed face. “This is a temporary guest pass that’ll expire in three hours when visiting hours are over. Proceed to the elevators there. Cafeteria is on ground level, Mr. Ramon’s office is the top floor. Just follow the signs.”  
“Wow, okay. Thank you!” she tried to say sweetly. The guard didn’t respond.  
With no intention of pushing her luck, Cynthia quickly made her way towards the elevators, slapping the sticker to her chest as she went. Once she chose her floor and the doors sealed shut, leaving her alone, she took in her reflection in the shiny panels, wondering what it was about her that got the guard to believe her.  
Thank god I wore the bodycon today.  
She had thrown it on thinking that it would help disguise her zombie like, sleep deprived state from the world. Cynthia hated it when people could tell that she was tired, and she figured no one could look tired in a bodycon dress. So was it the blush-like peachy tone that brought out her skin? Or the sweetheart neckline? Not like she had much cleavage to show off, but Linda had thought that it made her neck and collarbone look “statuesque”.  
“Who needs statement jewelry when your body's that bomb!” she'd told her.  
Whatever it was, the guard was convinced. The elevator chimed when she reached the top level, and Cynthia stepped into a seating area enclosed by bold green walls, broken up here and there with dark, textured panels. Mod style chairs and tables were paired together throughout the room, each area distinct from the rest. They weren't quite to her tastes, but the choice of greenery was; a collection of cacti, palms, and ferns were scattered amongst the bizarrely shaped furniture, a warm contrast to the cold chrome and plastic. She wondered if Mr. Ramon had had any say in the design.  
The room was humming with activity. Men in dark, pressed suits were chattering breathlessly into cell phones, rifling through leather bound planners, pacing in circles, waiting for an audience with the man himself. Everyone wants a piece of Francisco Ramon.  
Cynthia didn’t function well in restless chaos. It was the main reason why she always endeavored to be the boss wherever she worked; she was better at reining it in than she was at thriving within it. Growing overwhelmed, Cynthia weaved her way through the throng of Wall Street clones in search of someone in charge. She didn’t have to look far.  
A tall, stately looking woman with a firm step and perfect posture strolled into the lobby, stopping to take in the scene before her. Cynthia clocked her as being in her early to mid fifties, though anyone who looked at her would say she was aging gracefully. She was easily a whole head and shoulders taller than Cynthia, wearing a dark, sharply tailored suit with French cuffs and a plunging flared lapel. Her cat-eye glasses were the only detail belying her no-nonsense demeanor.  
“Gentlemen!” she called loudly to the room at large, “My name is Ms. Tannhauser! I am the executive assistant to Mr. Ramon! Now, Mr. Ramon is a very busy man with a very tight schedule, and I’m aware that no one here has an appointment, so you will have to go through me! If you manage to convince me that your business is worthwhile, Mr. Ramon will receive you, if he has the time!”  
A panicked ripple went through the crowd. Dignity forsaken, every man sped forward in a desperate bid to be heard, and Cynthia's small frame was easily swept up in the melee. Crushed amongst their bodies, her air now thick with the smell of cologne and musk, she could hear them in their last-ditch efforts to win Ms. Tannhauser’s favor.  
“Ms. Tannhauser! I have a winning proposition for Mr. Ramon!”  
“Ms. Tannhauser! I have a design that Mr. Ramon will be interested in!”  
“I know how Ramon Industries can crush your competition with Mercury Labs!”  
“Ms. Tannhauser!”  
“Ms. Tannhauser!”  
Anyone with a business card had them out, shoving them towards the woman's nonplussed face. It was a testament to her intimidating presence that no one had the nerve to push within two feet of her.  
Someone from behind was bearing down hard on Cynthia's back and she felt her knees buckling. Her heels staggered forward and that was it. Enough! Cynthia threw her elbows out and dug them into whatever body part she could find: ribs, spleens, perhaps a pair of testes or two. Gritting her teeth through the tension, she wrestled her way to the front of the pack and skittered to a stop in front the elder woman, heaving like a prowling animal. Ms. Tannhauser regarded her sudden appearance with raised brows, a mixture of surprise and amusement on her face.  
“And what brings you to Ramon Industries, young lady?”  
“Ms. Tannhauser…,” she paused for breath, “...image consultant… for Mr. Ramon…”  
Ms. Tannhauser cocked her head inquisitively. “An image consultant?” She seemed to consider it, even as the mass of men in front of her continued to struggle for her attention. She nodded her head once and beckoned Cynthia to join her, leaving the crowd of hopefuls groaning in defeat.  
Ms. Tannhauser led Cynthia down a curving hallway. “Thank goodness you're here,” she told her, “Between you and me, that young man has been cycling through the same four suits for over four months now. People are starting to notice.”  
“That's… why I'm here!” Cynthia offered awkwardly.  
“I can't tell you how stubborn he's been about this!” she continued. “I've been trying for weeks to convince him to hire a stylist. He needs to understand that there are certain expectations for someone in his position!”  
They walked through the strangest meeting room Cynthia had ever seen. There were rows and rows of shelves housing tablets of every size. The basketball hoop mounted over the head of the table reminded her of the break room from that one summer that she'd worked at Best Buy. And was that a raw juice bar in the corner?  
“So… this is unique,” she wondered aloud.  
“Mr. Ramon loves his toys,” came the reply. Ms. Tannhauser led her through the opposite entryway, and Cynthia found herself in a sprawling laboratory full of computers and several strange devices she thought she might've seen on CSI.  
“Is this Mr. Ramon's personal lab?” Cynthia inquired.  
“His lab, workshop, office… Mr. Ramon doesn't like to sit behind a desk,” answered the older woman.  
The left and right bays of the lab were cordoned off with transparent panels, and within one of them Cynthia finally saw him, standing at a table covered in schematics.  
Francisco Ramon was not a tall man, but he was still a head taller than she thought he'd be, based on what little she saw of him in her research. He wore glasses, and his long, dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail as he quietly sketched. As they approached, Ms. Tannhauser motioned for Cynthia to hang back just outside of the threshold while the older woman stepped inside. In the all consuming quiet of the lab, Cynthia found herself on edge, and nervous with the realization that it was all or nothing now. Of course, this had been the plan, but now that she was about to be face to face with her mark, she wondered how in God's name she'd managed to make it this far.  
“Mr. Ramon!” called Ms. Tannhauser. “You're new image consultant is here to meet with you. A Miss…,” she looked to Cynthia questioningly.  
“Uh-um, Rodriguez! Cyndi Rodriguez,” she scrambled.  
Mr. Ramon didn't take his eyes off of his work, but she could see him half smile, half scrunch up his nose in indignation.  
“I didn't call for any image consultants,” he said tersely.  
“No you did not, sir,” Ms. Tannhauser rebutted, “but as we have discussed many times…”  
“More like you discussed!”  
“... there is no harm in bringing on a stylist from time to time to keep up your appearance! I put in a call to a few agencies a few days ago to see what would come through, and Miss Rodriguez is here, now, to get started. Which agency are you from, by the way, Miss Rodriguez?”  
Cynthia felt her stomach drop.  
“None of them, ma'am,” she blurted out. Mr. Ramon looked her way with a raised brow. Ms. Tannhauser’s eyes narrowed slowly, no doubt angry that Cynthia had just conned her way through her defenses.  
“I'm actually an independent consultant!” she elaborated. “I have contacts within one of the usual agencies and uh, I admit that I intended to exercise a little initiative.”  
“You mean, beat them to the punch!” accused the older woman. She did not look at all pleased at being manipulated. Cynthia didn't answer, instead looking towards the man himself, hoping that, in her pitiable position, she could appeal to his mercy. The young man seemed to consider her for a moment, not unlike the security guard had done so moments before. Come through, bodycon! she thought.  
He sighed through his nostrils and turned back to his drawings. “Whatever. Fine. I will work with your image consultant. Though I still don't get what the big deal is about my clothes.”  
Ms. Tannhauser looked back at him in surprise. “But Mr. Ramon, I hardly think she's the appropriate person for the job!”  
“You wanted me to hire a consultant, here's a consultant!”  
“But she lied!”  
“She gambled,” he said, looking back at his assistant, “and you and I wouldn't be here today if we hadn't done the same.”  
Ms. Tannhauser frowned. Defeated, she spun on her heels and stalked back to Cynthia. There was no mistaking the edge to her voice as she stared down at her and warned in a low voice, “I will be tracking your progress very closely, Miss Rodriguez.”  
She raised her voice again to address her employer, “I'll leave you two to get started, Mr. Ramon. There's still a pack of wolves waiting in the lobby for me to deal with.”  
“Thank you, Ms. Carla!” he drawled with a grin. She was gone, and Cynthia suddenly wasn't sure what to do with herself. When she branded herself as an image consultant, she didn't think that she'd be dressing the man! But Cynthia was no stranger to fashion, and while it wasn't ideal, she was confident that she could make it work.  
“Aren't you gonna come in?”  
His voice gave her a jolt. She awkwardly entered the bay and hovered a few feet away from him.  
“You can toss your coat on that chair there, if you want. That's what I do.”  
Cynthia did as he suggested, laying her coat atop the grey jacket that matched the rest of his suit.  
“Well, Miss Rodriguez, what do you think?” he asked, raising his arms out to his sides for her to take him in. “Ms. Carla's been hounding me for weeks to hire someone like you.”  
She took a deep breath and opted for honesty. “I can see cause for her concern.”  
He dropped his arms exasperatedly and rolled his eyes. “What is wrong with the way I dress?!”  
Cynthia found herself unable to stifle a laugh as he perched himself on the edge of the table and crossed his arms. “There's nothing wrong, per se, but there's definitely room for improvement! To start off with, this grey is not doing you any favors.” He pursed his lips. “And something about the stark white of this shirt is clashing with your skin tone a little bit. The vest could be better fitted, and if that's the case, the jacket probably needs to be, too.”  
“Harsh!” he growled. Her smile faltered as she worried that she may have offended him. If her life hadn't depended on it right now, that worry wouldn't have held her back; Cynthia had certainly said worse to men, but she needed him to like her.  
The corners of his mouth were curling into a smile as he watched her face journey from fear, to confusion, to embarrassment. His eyes lingered on her flushed face before straying down to her chest, and she felt her stomach clench. Here it comes, she thought, bracing for that inevitable dose of machismo.  
“Caught you by surprise, did he?” he asked.  
“Huh?”  
“The guy at the security checkpoint,” Mr. Ramon answered, pointing at her ID sticker. Cynthia relaxed.  
“Oh, yeah, he did,” she said sheepishly, peering down at her mugshot. “Kind of inconsiderate of him.”  
“Yeah, that guy worries me. Pretty sure he's got a picture of me in his basement that he throws knives at or something.”  
Cynthia let herself laugh at the mental image he'd conjured for her way too easily.  
“You don't have to be so nervous, Miss Rodriguez,” he assured her. “If anything, I'm the one who should be nervous.”  
“Why is that?”  
Mr. Ramon stood up from his perch and reached into a drawer. When he turned back to her, he was holding a soft tape measure.  
“Because I've gotta let you use this on me.”  
\----

There was an exhilarating and common occurrence in Central City that every citizen had experienced at least once. It began with a streak of light, a crackle of electricity, and ended with an incredible gust of wind. If you found yourself knocked back into your heels, and your hair inexplicably windswept, congratulations! You've witnessed the Flash.  
The streak of yellow light tore down the street, zigging and zagging its way towards Ramon Industries, leaving a trail of blaring car alarms in its wake.  
There were many things that Wally West loved about being the Flash. Running ridiculous errands for his sister was ranked pretty low on that list. Frantic that Cynthia wasn't answering her phone, Iris had commanded her speed endowed younger brother to inspect Ramon Industries for her missing friend. Wally knew better than to say no.  
He sped through the lobby and up the side stairwells to the top floor. He entered the familiar laboratory and hid, knowing full well that Ramon didn't keep cameras here.  
Where are you, Cyn?  
He spotted Ramon in the left bay, standing stiffly with his back turned to Wally and his legs slightly parted.  
And there, on her knees, was Cynthia Reynolds!  
Wally West's jaw would've hit the floor if it could. He reflexively clapped his gloved hands over his mouth in shock over what he was seeing. God help him, he never thought that Cynthia would go so far! He watched in horror as Cynthia unfurled a tape measure.  
What kind of kinky shit! he screamed in his head.  
“Inseam, thirty inches,” she declared.  
Huh?  
“I always thought I was a thirty-two,” Ramon was saying.  
Confused, Wally squinted at them harder. Cynthia wrapped the tape measure around Ramon's calf, then his thigh, then rose to her feet and wrapped it around his waist. Wally blew out a breath. Thank God! I don't know how I would've explained that to Iris! He'd seen enough, and he was pushing his luck the longer he stayed on Ramon Industries’ grounds. Wally took off.  
\----  
Iris West paced restlessly in her brother's apartment, awaiting his return. With any luck, Cynthia was just blowing off steam at the gym or something, not foolishly putting her hasty plan into action. She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't!  
She would, Iris knew, and there would be nothing anyone could do to pull her out.  
Wally swooshed into the room and pulled the cowl of his suit back. Iris braced for bad news.  
“She's in there!” he told her, “Like, she's with Cisco right now!”  
Iris groaned and cradled her face in her hands. This was all wrong! She should've tried harder to stop Cynthia back at Jitters!  
“Maybe I can back there and grab her?” Wally offered.  
“No, that may make things worse!” Iris moaned. “Cisco will know that it was you who took her, and Cyn will figure out that I sent you. I mean, I tell her not to go through with her plan, and all of a sudden, the Flash is there to scoop her out? No, she's too smart for that.”  
Wally shook his head in bewilderment.  
“What did you see her doing there anyway?” Iris asked him.  
Wally blew out a breath and gave a laugh. “She was, uh, measuring him.”  
“Measuring him?”  
“Yeah, you know, like a fitting. His waist and shoulders and stuff. It's kinda funny,” he laughed again, “for a second I thought she was…”  
Iris waited, not the least bit amused. Wally thought twice.  
“You know what, never mind.”  
\----  
Cynthia, or Cyndi, as she was now called, spent the next couple of hours with Mr. Ramon, trying in vain to develop a style for a man she barely knew, and who wasn't being very cooperative with her efforts. She promised to stay out of his way as he worked, flitting from one workstation to another throughout the laboratory. She found his energy difficult to keep up with and predict, as she'd not forgotten her primary reason in coming here in the first place. Whenever she got a chance, Cynthia attempted to make sense of some of the diagrams and schematics that he had spread on his walls, on his tables, even daring to peek into a folder or two. While she wasn't looking for anything specific, she kept her eyes peeled for super weapons, metahuman testing, and anything related to the missing Harrison Wells.  
Maybe that story about the giant gorilla is true!  
Every once in awhile, Cynthia would confront Mr. Ramon with the style profile of a celebrity on the tablet he'd given her to use, just to make sure that she looked busy. He would bite the inside of his cheek, shake his head, and return to his work, looking more uncomfortable each time.  
“Mr. Ramon, so far you've rejected Clooney, McConaughey, Pitt… you know, this might be a little easier if you'd tell me what it is that you like!”  
His reply was annoyed. “Apparently, what I like is ‘perfectly fine for an aimless bachelor, but not appropriate for Central City's most eligible bachelor,’” he said in a curt, vaguely feminine tone.  
“Is that Ms. Tannhauser’s opinion?” Cynthia asked softly.  
“And my mother's,” he answered unhappily.  
“What does your girlfriend think?”  
Mr. Ramon seemed taken aback. He swallowed hard and flushed pink.  
“Mel and I… aren't really together,” he said, unable to meet her eyes. “Not all the time, at least.”  
Intriguing, she thought. Best to keep that in my back pocket in case this doesn't pan out.  
He pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “Look, Miss Rodriguez, I'm sure whatever you come up with will be perfectly suitable by everyone's standards,” he said glumly. Cynthia felt a twinge of sympathy.  
“Everyone's except yours,” she added.  
When he leaned back, he gave a soft, sad smile. “That's been par for the course, lately.”  
He met her eyes at last. “Your visitor's pass is gonna expire soon. You should head out.” His smile turned playful, and for a moment, Cynthia could appreciate his boyish charm.  
“Unless you want your friend downstairs to stop you on your way out,” he warned. Despite her best efforts, she smiled.  
Cynthia made her way back towards the elevators, the whirlwind of the past few hours finally settling into her limbs. To her surprise, Ms. Tannhauser was waiting for her, a black, leather organizer tucked under one of her arms. Cynthia approached her with dread, remembering that she wasn't exactly the woman's favorite person at the moment. As expected, the older woman's reception was rather cold, but Cynthia made the effort to steel herself and hold her chin up. She'd won today, and she wasn't about to let Mr. Ramon's shrew ruin that for her.  
Ms. Tannhauser regarded her coolly for a moment before speaking, “A rather rewarding day for you, I imagine,” she uttered.  
Tired but victorious, Cynthia's face broke into a cocky grin. “Indeed, it is,” she said, lacing her voice with confidence. “Mr. Ramon seems to be a decent man.”  
Perhaps too much confidence. Anger flashed across Ms. Tannhauser's face, the woman taking two, slow, menacing steps towards her. Cynthia suddenly felt as though she had just swallowed something cold, but she stood her ground. The older woman's nostrils flared as she took a deep, steadying breath and reached into her organizer.  
“As you will be working closely with Mr. Ramon, I've taken the liberty of acquiring a proper ID card for you,” she explained in an icy tone. “The card only functions during regular office hours, not a minute before or after. Once you have submitted your initial style proposals, you will be required to sign a non disclosure agreement before you are given any company or personal funds from Mr. Ramon, or any of his personal contact information, for that matter. Until then, any contact will be directed to me. Are there any questions?”  
“Just one.”  
The woman gave a stiff nod.  
“What's the limit to my budget?”  
Ms. Tannhauser smiled. “Mr. Ramon is the richest man in America, Miss Rodriguez. There is no limit.”  
And with that, the woman strode past, the sound of her heels echoing as Cynthia lingered in stunned silence.  
\----


	3. The Richest Man in America

Cisco Ramon sank into a rolling chair and scooted to the middle of his lab. With Miss Rodriguez gone, he was free to fall into his usual habits, one of which was settling into his chair with his eyes closed, taking in the solitude.  
Cisco did not think of himself as a solitary man; in fact, he had had a reputation for being gregarious, and perhaps a bit over eager to make friends. It was his way of making up for the years lost in school, when he'd felt like his friends only existed in comic books and movies. In the old days, when Harrison Wells ran things, Cisco found kindred spirits in his colleagues, and a mentor in his boss. But things had changed, in very ugly, very dark ways. At the end of it all, he'd emerged a titan of industry.   
A billionaire.   
The richest man in America.  
But titans had few peers, and even fewer friends, and perhaps it was this that prompted him to take in Cyndi Rodriguez, despite the fact that he resented being told to change. He smiled to himself as he thought of the young upstart of a woman. Cisco Ramon would gladly admit that he had an affinity for bold, brazen, beautiful women, and what was more brazen than intercepting Ms. Carla Tannhauser to get to the man at the top of Ramon Industries?  
She was more petite than he was used to, with Ms. Carla standing eye to eye with him, and Melinda being a full six feet tall. But in his experience, short women packed a lot of attitude, and he couldn't wait to see hers.  
Yes, Miss Rodriguez was a beauty. Those eyes, that hair, that smile! Cisco wondered how often she got to smile, and as much as he bristled at the thought of her having to give him a makeover, he wanted to see it again.  
The sound of Ms. Carla's heels interrupted his reverie.  
“You didn't throw her down the elevator shaft, did you?” he cracked. He spun in his chair to face his beloved assistant. In this building, only he could get away with busting her chops like this. Ms. Carla peered down at him through her cat eye spectacles with what he'd happily call fondness, the woman having been his friend and den mother since his first days at S.T.A.R Labs.  
“You know I only do this to protect you,” she told him, and Cisco smiled wide at her. “Your new friend will be back,” she continued, “hopefully with some designs worth the spectacle she put on today.”  
Cisco's smile fell.  
“I still wish you hadn't called anyone,” he said, absentmindedly running a finger around his ear. “I hardly go out anymore, no one's going to see me.”  
“And that's the trouble, Cisco,” Carla told him placatingly. “As rich as you are, you can't afford to become a recluse! Staying out of the public eye just gives people free license to craft their own persona, their own narrative for you! I hate to say it, but Dr. Wells understood this very well. Think of it as a necessary evil.”  
His mentor's name so closely spoken to the word evil made him frown deeply, the dam he'd built to contain those memories threatening to release. He tried to change the subject.  
“Any messages for me?”  
A beat passed before she answered.  
“Many. But they can wait until tomorrow,” she said, looking at him with concern. “You should go home early, Mr. Ramon. Get some rest.”  
“I will when you do,” he teased with a wink.  
\----  
Deep in the belly of Ramon Industries, in the bones of the former S.T.A.R Labs, was a huge swath of track that its creators had called The Pipeline. The artery to a once promising creation meant for great and noble things, a creation twisted for great and terrible things.  
Unbeknownst to those above, unseen by any living soul, was a pale shadow, blasted upon the wall in a single horrific act of hubris.   
A shadow in the shape of a man.   
A shadow that seemed to breathe if you listened closely. The air before it seemed to pulse and ripple, a crackle sounding as the air split, the fabric of reality bubbling over and peeling open all at once. A small blue portal was blossoming, and from it stretched a pale, emaciated human hand. It reached for a moment, trembled, then grasped as it was pulled back, the portal collapsing. Reality snapped back in an instant, the growling cry of a man echoing, echoing, echoing, unheard.


	4. The 34th Floor

Cynthia checked her phone when she reached her car. Three texts from Linda, five calls from Iris, and a voicemail from Scott Evans, their editor. Cynthia cringed at the name on her screen. Evans was a tough nut, but not inflexible. She would have to come up with a reasonable excuse for her absence, if Linda hadn't already done so. Tomorrow, though. It wasn't even five o'clock, but she felt like she'd gone ten rounds at the gym and she wasn't ready to face the music just yet. The drive home took an eternity, and she peeled her heels off before setting her bare, aching feet on the concrete. Rounding the corner from her parking space, she found Iris sitting on the front steps of her building. Cynthia sighed heavily at the sight. She was going to have to face at least some of the music now, it seemed.  
“Well, you're not in jail, and we're not being sued,” Iris speculated as Cynthia plopped down beside her, “so I take it Icarus kissed the sun and flew away unscathed today.”  
“In a manner of speaking.”  
“We were worried about you.”  
“You know I can handle myself.”  
Iris shook her head.  
“I can't believe you, Cyn. I just can't. But, it's over now, and we can put this whole crazy mess behind us.”  
“I'm going back, Iris.”  
Iris sighed and looked to her friend. There wasn't a glimmer of doubt in her face; whatever Cynthia had pulled off today, in her mind, it had cemented this farce as being the payload she had been waiting for. Iris had clashed with Cynthia's stubborn streak enough times to know that she'd already lost, and anything she did to stop her would just embolden her further. Iris got to her feet.  
“I just hope this doesn't blow up in your face.”  
\----  
Finally back in her apartment, Cynthia peeled her clothes off and let them lay where they landed. She ran a bath for herself, dumping an extra capful of her peach bubble bath before settling in. After today, she deserved a soak. Melting into the heat and suds, she contemplated the next stage of her operation. As ridiculous as it was, she needed to seriously tackle the issue of his wardrobe. If this cover was going to hold, she needed to do the job right for as long as she could. That also meant finding a tailor. She cringed at the thought. Bringing in another body would just make this more complicated than it already was. Aside from the logistics of it all, Cynthia still needed to find something on Ramon Industries that was worth all this. An on-again off-again relationship with the Pink Lady wasn't going to cut it.  
And she still had her day job.  
Damn, I kinda wish I was the Flash.  
\----  
The next morning, Cynthia anchored herself at her desk like a good little reporter and made sure to look sufficiently occupied with Stephanie Normandy’s latest meltdown. In between typing and surreptitiously glancing about for onlookers, she would peek inside the blue binder containing her operation notes and the tablet she was using to test menswear ensembles. Every once in a while, she would pin a new shirt or tie to her screen to see the effect. She hadn't had to do nonsense like this in years, and she'd forgotten just how many styles of shirt collars there were to choose from. She was so lost in her selections that she nearly jumped out of her skin when a stuffed purple octopus dangled onto her downturned head.  
“Octi thinks Buttercup isn't as sneaky as she thinks she is,” came a high pitched, squeaky voice from behind her computer.  
Cynthia relaxed and made a face. “Maybe Octi should mind his own damn business!”  
Linda sprung up from her hiding spot.  
“How dare you talk to Octi that way!”, she said in her normal voice. “You know he's always been there for us!”  
Indeed, Octi the octopus had been a staple of Linda's office shenanigans for longer than Cynthia had known her. At some point before Cynthia was brought on to the paper, Iris and Linda had adopted their matching personas from the cartoon girl trio, “fighting crime, trying to save the world”, but they'd never had a Buttercup. Until Cynthia came along. Since then, Octi would mysteriously turn up in her desk drawers, in her coat pocket, even in random flower pots throughout the office, an odd reminder from Linda to not take things too seriously.   
Iris approached them.  
Great, she’s got her mom face on.   
“So, have you told Linda what you got yourself into yesterday?”  
Ugh, she is Blossom!, Cynthia thought to herself. Linda peered at her expectantly.  
Cynthia drew herself up proudly. “I've infiltrated Mr. Ramon's inner circle!” she whispered. Linda's eyes widened. Iris rolled hers.  
“‘Infiltrated’”, Iris mocked. “She got lucky! Why don't you tell Linda what it is you're doing for him?”  
Linda jabbed a finger at Cynthia, “I swear to God, Cyn, if you're that guy’s new assassin, so help me-”  
“Shutup! I'm just his image consultant!”  
“Image consultant?”  
“It's a fancy term for stylist,” Iris clarified.  
Linda was incredulous. “You're dressing him?! I know you look good but have you ever dressed a man before? They're ridiculous! You give them runway gold but no, they’ll walk outta the house in the same grey and navy blue crap!”  
“Yes! I have! I worked the menswear department at Nordstrom’s for two years in college remember? I got this!”  
Iris and Linda knocked their heads back and groaned in exasperation.   
“Look, it's easy,” Cynthia went on, pulling the tablet out for them to see, “You pick a suit, then a shirt, then a tie, modify it with a collar, cuffs, and whatever accessories you want!”  
Iris seemed to frown with her whole face. “Is this some kind of… billionaire doll maker?”  
Linda leaned in for a look. “What the hell is a club collar?”  
“Oh, it's just a rounded version of a regular collar, sort of like a Peter Pan one,” Cynthia said, taking her tablet back, “but it's too preppy for him! I'm thinking a spread collar, maybe even a cutaway, to flatter his face shape. You know, he's got one of those soft, rounded jawlines, and one of those cute cleft chins… kinda makes him look distinguished… what?”  
Iris and Linda were staring at their rambling friend with raised brows, Linda looking amused, Iris looking… well, Cynthia couldn't be sure. Neither woman was given the chance to press the issue; Scott Evans, editor in chief of CCPN, strolled through the front door, set his sights on Cynthia, and walked over, his purpose clear.  
“Good morning ladies,” he said to Linda and Iris, before turning his focus to her, “Miss Reynolds! I couldn't help but notice that you didn't bother returning from lunch yesterday. Now I expect that from Miss West, the value of her work actually merits that kind of dedication…”  
Iris flinched, and Cynthia felt a pulse of anger in her stomach.  
“... but you're a different story. At the very least, I expect for you to check in with someone. Do you care to explain yourself?”  
Cynthia struggled to check her anger at his implication while searching for a worthwhile cover. Incredibly, the only thing her mind could come up with was the age old Monthly Gift excuse, but she told herself that she was above using feminine bodily functions as a copout.  
Apparently Linda wasn't.  
“Cynthia actually did check in with someone Scott,” she chimed in, “she checked in with me. I just didn't feel it was appropriate then to tell you,” she threw Cynthia a pointed look, “that she didn't come back because she got-”  
“I got my-,” Cynthia tried to cut her off, too late.  
“ -diarrhea!” Linda finished loudly.   
Cynthia's face froze into a horrified smile, Iris turned away to stifle a giggle, and Scott Evans looked at a loss for words.  
“Um, d-diarrhea?” he stammered.  
“Yeah!” Linda elaborated, “We took her out for lunch, which she never let's us do, and I guess that sandwich just didn't agree with her! Right, Cyn?”  
Evans turned to face her, clearly embarrassed. There was nothing Cynthia could do but go along.  
“Yup, that is what happened, mhm,” she said, nodding slowly, with Linda in her crosshairs. It was more than enough for Scott Evans. He cleared his throat, “Well, um, I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Reynolds. Next time, uh, just call it a health emergency or something. Keep up the good work.”  
He bowed his head awkwardly and left. Once again just the three of them, Iris and Cynthia regarded their calm and thoroughly unapologetic teammate.  
“What!,” she whined playfully. “I just saved the day, didn't I?”  
\---   
Over the course of the next few days, Cynthia got first hand experience on what it was like to live a double life. From the hours of 9 a.m to 1 p.m, she was Cynthia Reynolds, the lowly society maven for CCPN. From 1 p.m to 2:30, she was Cyndi Rodriguez, the scrappy image consultant who always seemed to be in such a terrible hurry! Sacrificing her lunch break, Cynthia tore through town, hopping from one designer boutique to the next, gathering swatches of material from prospective ateliers. On day three, she finally secured a tailor, an admittedly sketchy looking older man on the outskirts of the fashion district, who promised her in a husky voice that he “knew how to be discreet.” Cynthia made a mental note to just pay him in cash.  
When all was said and done, Cynthia had to hand it to herself, any man should be grateful to look as good as this.   
She gathered her presentation materials together and made for Ramon Industries, having no intentions of being fielded if she called Ms. Tannhauser first.  
Pulling into the parking lot, she noticed a number of police cars lined up near the building's front doors. The atrium was buzzing with the voices of the dozens of Ramon Industries employees clustered within. Was there an evacuation? she wondered. Most of the employees were still in their lab coats, many of them nervous or confused, conversing in low voices and shaking their heads in disbelief. Cynthia weaved her way through the crowd slowly, stretching her hearing as hard she could in the hopes of snatching up the story.  
“... months of research, just gone…”  
“... in the middle of the night…”  
“How much ya wanna bet it was a metahuman?”  
Cynthia hovered near a pair of lab techs for a moment, keeping her eyes peeled for Mr. Ramon, or even Ms. Tannhauser. One of them was speaking.  
“I overheard one of the officers saying that there was no sign of forced entry. Like it just happened in here. Screams inside job to me.”  
“That doesn't make any sense! All of our access cards go offline at the end of the day!”  
“Not Carla's. Not Cisco's either.”  
“Like they'd wreck their own research!”  
“So what, you think it was the gho-o-ost?”  
“I'm just saying, there's something weird in here!”  
Cynthia tried to absorb what she'd heard as she continued towards the security gates. A building packed with scientific minds and they still managed to come up with a ghost story? No, an inside job sounded more on the money. Maybe a disgruntled scientist decided to show Mr. Ramon his idea of a severance package.  
Cynthia finally drew close to the gates, a handful of uniformed officers screening anyone who went in or out. Ms. Tannhauser was with them, hands planted on her hips, seemingly lost in thought. The sound of Cynthia's heels seemed to draw her out of her reverie.  
“I wish you would've called ahead, Miss Rodriguez,” she said with a sigh. While the woman certainly didn't look happy to see her, she didn't seem annoyed either. If anything, Cynthia would've said that she looked… worried.   
“I was close by, thought that I could pop in,” she lied, opting for civility.  
“I'm just not sure if now is the best time. We've had an… incident of sorts.”  
Let's go fishing.  
“Was there a… suicide?” Cynthia whispered, trying to sound as innocent as she could.  
“No, nothing like that, thank goodness,” came the reply, “but it's the last thing that Mr. Ramon needs on his plate.”  
“Is he alright?”  
“He's… adapting.”  
“Anything I can do to help?”  
She didn't know why she said it. Cynthia wasn't terribly eager to really help, but the words were out of her mouth before she'd even thought about it. Interestingly, Ms. Tannhauser seemed to be considering it.  
“Perhaps you can!” she said, and she motioned for Cynthia to join her. The two of them entered the main elevator and Ms. Tannhauser pressed the button for the 34th floor.  
“We're not going to Mr. Ramon's office?”   
“No, the incident was on the 34th floor,” she was told, “Mr. Ramon is there with the police.”  
Well, this will be interesting!” Cynthia thought excitedly. But she still wasn't prepared for the scene that greeted them when they arrived, and she felt her jaw drop despite herself.  
At first glance, one would say that a bomb went off inside; computers, centrifuges, desks, and medical equipment were blown apart from a point near the center of the laboratory, the clear epicenter of the blast. Only there were no signs of fire, no charred remains, and no scent of smoke in the air. Whatever happened here, it was unlike any explosion Cynthia had ever seen, and the crime scene techs milling through the rubble looked just as perplexed as she felt.   
And standing just outside the destruction was Francisco Ramon, listening to a detective that Cynthia knew very well. Detective Joe West, Iris's father, was as much a part of her life as his daughter was, and she shuddered briefly from the panic of seeing him here. If Joe saw her, she was done for, but where was she to hide?  
There was just no way, and she braced herself for the inevitable as Detective West turned to acknowledge their presence. To her shock, Joe did not look at all surprised to see her. His eyes lingered on her for a moment before turning back to Mr. Ramon. Cynthia had to admit, the man looked pitiable. Mr. Ramon's tied back hair was frizzy and slightly ruffled, as if he'd spent a considerable amount of time raking his fingers through it in frustration. He was standing with his fingertips pressed to his temples, mouth pouted, and she half expected for him to break down crying at any second. Ms. Tannhauser approached the two men, Cynthia two steps behind her, unsure of Joe's reaction.   
“Mr. Ramon,” Ms. Tannhauser was saying in a soft tone, “if Detective West has no objection, Miss Rodriguez is here for you, for a consultation.”  
He dropped his hands and took a deep, angry breath.  
“Carla,” he said slowly, “now is really not the time!”  
His assistant squared her shoulders, but seemed to take care with her words. “What's done is done, sir, and you have other things to attend to. I would suggest stepping away from all this, give yourself a chance to decompress. Perhaps take Miss Rodriguez out for lunch to discuss her project.”  
“No, I need to be here!” he snapped quickly.  
Joe West threw Cynthia a glance before interrupting, “With all due respect, Mr. Ramon, you don't have to be here. The techs should be done within the hour, and then we can release the scene to Ms. Tannhauser. It's not a problem.”  
Mr. Ramon mulled it around for a moment. He wanted to leave, Cynthia could see it all over his face, but instead he shook his head.  
“No, Carla, the employees need to see me here.”  
“It doesn't do them any good to see you like this.”  
He hung his head, and it was clear that she'd won. He nodded, still staring at the floor. He moved to join Cynthia, looking like a punished child. Astounded by her luck, Cynthia followed him back to the elevators, Joe West's knowing gaze the last thing she saw.


	5. Ernesto's

What does a billionaire drive? A Bentley? An Audi? Some Italian sports coupe with complicated doors that you need a tutorial to open?   
Francisco Ramon, the richest man in America, drove a damn Prius.   
A blue Prius.  
Cynthia Reynolds had never felt so disappointed in a man's ride before in her life, even if a small part of her was grateful that he didn't drive some aggressively male, frat boy's car. Not that she dared to criticize; he drove in silence, brow furrowed, occasionally resting an elbow on the door to chew on his thumb. He was stewing, she could see, and it was a wonder to her that he was even capable of real anger. If she was being honest, it wasn't an effect that she liked on him.   
You’re not supposed to care, Cyn, remember?   
She rolled her eyes at herself as she asked anyway, “Listen… if you'd like to talk about what happened…”  
She didn't have to prod. His stress seemed to bubble over all at once and he was shaking.  
“You know what's incredible?! A God damn… bomb!... goes off in my bio mechanics lab! And the police tell me there's no bomb debris! No bomb debris! How do you walk into a crime scene like that and tell me there's no bomb debris?!”  
He paused to steady himself before continuing.  
“And then! The real cherry on top of that shit sundae, my security team tells me there's no footage! Not a single camera, which I paid good money for, captured the blast! Now I have a lab to rebuild, months worth of R and D to make up for, and no one can tell me why!”  
Cynthia was frozen to to her seat. They rolled to a stop at a red light, and she watched, from the corner of her eye, as Mr. Ramon blew out a long, dreary sigh. He pulled his glasses from his face and dropped them in the cup holder full of lollipops. And finally, to her amazement, he pulled his hair free, the heat and tension from the little bun setting his cascading hair into soft waves. He ran his fingers through his tresses wearily and moaned aloud. “I need comfort food, how do you feel about empanadas?”, he asked, looking at her for an answer. His silky hair framed his soft, full features in a way she couldn't have imagined of him, and his eyes somehow seemed darker, shinier, without his glasses. The effect was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. The thought set her skin tingling.  
“Erm, that sounds good to me,” she answered. Her voice sounded strange to her. He nodded, and drove them to a tiny restaurant attached to a laundromat. Ernesto's, it was called. A far cry from the fine French and Italian cafes she imagined a billionaire would be into. Cynthia made sure to grab her portfolio before following him to the door, which he held open for her to her embarrassment. Mr. Ramon didn't wait to be seated; instead he plopped down into a booth in the furthest corner of the tiny eatery and sighed in satisfaction, as if he'd eaten here all his life. And judging by the warm and eager way the little old waitress sped to their table, she realized that he just might have.  
“Francisco-o-o!” she cooed at him affectionately, pulling him sideways into a hug. Cynthia couldn't help but smile.  
“Buenas, Magaly,” he said, a little sheepishly. At least he's smiling, Cynthia thought to herself.   
“Ay, Francisco, you haven't been by in so long!” Magaly admonished him, in slightly accented English. Before he could breathe a word of explanation, she silenced him with a raised hand. “But! ¡Es okay! I know you're the big boss now, and big bosses need good food, so whatever you and your pretty friend want is on the house!”  
Mr. Ramon immediately protested. “Mamá, no-”  
“Ah ah ah!” she shushed him again. “So? The usual?”  
Mr. Ramon's face was pink now, but he plastered on a smile and told her yes. The sweet older lady looked to Cynthia expectantly.  
“Oh! Uh, lo mismo, por favor,” she said quickly. The woman winked and left them.  
Alone again, Mr. Ramon's smile was fading fast. “Sorry about that,” he said glumly, “You'd think they'd be okay with letting the rich guy pay.”  
“She's proud of you,” Cynthia observed.  
“I know. She's from the old neighborhood, thinks me and Dante can do no wrong?”  
“Dante?”  
“My older brother.”  
Cynthia grinned coyly. “So you're the baby of the family?”  
The corner of his mouth quirked up into another bashful smile.  
“Yes, I'm the baby.”  
And in that moment, she could easily see it. Until then, his tax bracket and position in their city had colored her perspective of him; calling him “Mr. Ramon” had somehow made him seem older, even though she knew full well that they were very close in age. But here, in this humble shop, away from his assistant and the harsh lighting, being coddled by a sweet woman who knew him way back when, she was able to take in just how young he really was. With his loose hair, shy smile, and the light streaming in through the window, playing on his golden brown skin, he was just another guy. A surprisingly handsome, single guy.   
Wait. What're you doing, Cyn?   
She watched him fiddle around with a napkin.  
He's not even your type!  
He gazed out the window at the passing cars, chewing on a toothpick he'd taken from the dispenser on their table.  
You're not here for a date!  
Thankfully, Magaly arrived with their plates. She set down two plates with rice and beans, three fat, golden empanadas, with a pair of dipping cups full of chimichurri and chile on the side. The old woman smiled widely as Mr. Ramon abandoned all sense of professionalism, bouncing his legs and smiling gleefully at his treat. They gave Magaly their thanks and she scurried away, thoroughly pleased with herself.  
Mr. Ramon looked to Cynthia seriously for a moment before telling her, “I apologize in advance.”  
“For what?” she asked nervously.  
His face split into another smile.  
“Because I'm about to get nasty!”  
Her cheeks warmed, and she laughed.  
\----  
Joe West climbed into his car, parked at the front entrance of Ramon Industries. There wasn't much left for to process of the bizarre scene on the 34th floor, so he'd released it to Ramon's assistant and one of the lab’s project managers. Now in the quiet and privacy of his car, Joe called his daughter.  
“Hey, Dad!”  
“Hey, baby, listen. Any of your sources come to you about some accident at Ramon Industries?”  
“No! Oh my god, is Cynthia alright?”  
“Yeah, she's fine,” he drawled, “Whatever happened, happened at night, she wasn't there.”  
“Well, what did happen?”  
“Not sure. By the looks of it, some type of explosion went off on the 34th floor, wrecked a lab. Funny thing is, crime scene guys didn't find any evidence of explosive materials.”  
Iris's voice came in low.   
“You're thinking a metahuman attack?”  
“That's my first guess,” Joe agreed. “Thought I'd give you and Wally a heads up.”  
“What's Cisco Ramon have to say about all this?”  
“Oh he's pissed! Whining about his projects and his expensive security cameras not recording anything.”  
“Any witnesses?”  
“None. But,” Joe hesitated, “several employees told me, off the record, that the ghost probably did it.”  
Iris was silent for a beat. “A ghost?” she repeated flatly.  
“I know, I know, but they're telling me about all this weird stuff that's been happening there for months. Like screaming coming outta thin air, and some kind of blue ripple that just floats outta nowhere. Anything on your metahuman blog like that?”  
“Not even close,” she said.  
Joe shrugged it off. “Well, if I were you, I wouldn't tell your friend about this. Don't need her getting in the middle of some weird shit and getting hurt.”  
“I know, Dad,” Iris agreed in a worried tone. “I know…”  
\----  
It had been a while since a man treated Cynthia to a meal. With her self imposed high standards, her dates were few and far in between, a fact that Linda and Iris took as a challenge. A lunch date with the richest man in America would've made their heads spin, but Cynthia had a feeling they weren't going to be eager to plan her wedding if she told them.  
Sure, even she didn't want to think of this as a date, but she couldn't deny that this felt better than most she'd had in the past. It was as if Francisco Ramon was transforming before her eyes. There was something endearing about watching him eat, the way he would gingerly hold a piece between three fingers, cheerfully alternating which sauce he dipped them in before popping it in his mouth.  
He’s like a kid with a happy meal.  
Cynthia had a harder time. While the food was, of course, spine-tinglingly delicious, she was growing more and more self conscious the longer she stayed with him. It wasn’t like her, but nervousness was setting her stomach aflutter, and it made it difficult to eat in peace.  
“Something wrong with the food?” he inquired in a low voice, to keep Magaly from hearing.  
“Oh, no, I’m just...not at my best right now,” she admitted. She had a thought. “To be honest, I’d feel a lot better if we discussed my work.”  
His disposition faltered, but he wiped his hands clean. “You’re right,” he sighed, “I’m sorry I made you wait. Well, let’s see what you’ve got.”  
Cynthia pulled her tablet out from her portfolio and opened her slideshow. She laid the sheet full of the fabric swatches that she’d collected and painstakingly arranged next to the tablet for him to refer to. He slowly swiped through the dozens of pictures as she broke down her choices for him, prattling on about the various designers she’d chosen and what their style could do for him, from local ateliers to French imports.  
“No French designers, “ he told her firmly. Cynthia shrugged it off quickly; she’d only included two, and it would’ve been next to impossible for her to coordinate with them anyway. She moved on, pitching cuts and color palettes, so deeply engrossed in her carefully crafted presentation that she didn’t notice him shrinking in upon himself.  
“So what do you think?” she concluded. Mr. Ramon was hunched forward, chin resting on his fists. When he finally answered, he sounded guilty.  
“I like this one,” he said quietly. Cynthia blinked.  
“And?” she pressed bracingly.  
He sat up, clearly uncomfortable.  
“And this one’s kinda nice,” he responded, not quite meeting her eyes.  
Despite the fact that this consulting cover was not at all her main priority, Cynthia still felt a swell of outrage burn up her ears.  
“That’s it?,” she demanded, struggling to maintain her composure. “There’s twenty designs in there, and you only like one?”  
“Look, Miss Rodriguez,” he began with an edge to his voice, “I appreciate how hard you must have worked on this but I’m not James Bond! Most of this is for a certain type of man, and that’s not me!”  
Cynthia laid against her chair’s backrest with her arms crossed, fuming.  
“You know, I gave you an opportunity to tell me what you wanted and you didn’t do that!”  
“Because no one cares!”  
“I care! It’s my job to care! With all due respect, Mr. Ramon, I’m not your friend! I’ve known you for four days! Anything I do for you needs your input!”  
“I never wanted to do this in the first place,” he stated glumly.  
Cynthia snatched up her tablet and materials and stuffed them back in her portfolio.  
“Fine!” she snapped, “You know, for someone so afraid of how the world sees him, you sure don't make any effort to show them who are!”  
She snatched up her fork and continued eating, appetite gone, but she wasn't going to take her annoyance out on Magaly by refusing to eat her food. He sat across from her, chewing the inside of his cheek. They spent the rest of their meal in tense silence, but they were each mindful to be gracious and cheerful when Magaly came for their plates.  
Cynthia took the opportunity to order coffee for the both of them, pondering how she could smooth over what just happened. True to her nature, she had lashed out first, and weighed her words far too late. Mr. Ramon was moodily fiddling with a packet of sugar. It was starting to feel like her usual dates after all.  
“Look,” she began carefully, “it's not that I don't want to work with you, it's just that clients usually have an idea of what they're looking. It helps to get to know them a little bit in the beginning, and we didn't do that.”  
“No, we didn't,” he said thoughtfully. He seemed to be chewing on an idea. Maybe it was the coffee's magic at work, or maybe it was just in his nature to forgive and move on easily, but whatever it was, Francisco Ramon was smiling at her again. When he spoke again, Cynthia thought she detected an air of mischief about him.  
“So, what you're saying is,” he said playfully, “is that you wanna get to know me better.”  
Cynthia bit at the inner corners of her mouth to keep from bashfully smiling back.  
Quit being such a girl, Cyn!  
But she couldn't help herself.  
“I guess I am,” she told him coyly.  
He leaned in close. She didn't back down.  
“Well, let's see if you're up for a challenge then, Miss Rodriguez.”  
Cynthia always was. She tensed in anticipation.  
It wasn't what she expected.  
“My mother is hosting my brother's birthday party next week. I was supposed to go with… someone else, but I think you should come with me instead.”  
She blinked in disbelief.  
“As in, your date?”  
“My plus one! Think about it, you'll be in my old house, my old neighborhood, all my old friends will be there…”  
And your family.  
“If you haven't gotten to know me by the end of the night,” he leaned back with a self satisfied smirk, “then maybe you're just not the one for me!”  
She knew that he meant stylist and not… that other thing, but she trembled all the same.  
“I, u-u-um,” she stammered, “I'll have to think about it.” Geez, girl, you're embarrassing today!  
Mr. Ramon gave her his widest smile yet.  
“That's good enough for now!” He drained the rest of his coffee and made to get up from their table. Cynthia waited a beat before following.  
Magaly emerged from her kitchen as they neared the door.  
“By-y-ye Magaly,” he cooed, drawing her into a hug.  
“Bueno, chico, I hope you and your pretty lady friend don't wait so long to see me again, ¿sí?”  
“Of course not, Mama, okay look, toma esto,” he told her, placing a few twenties in her hand, easily twice the value of their meal.  
Magaly wasn't having it.  
“No!” she protested, “I say es on the house, es on the house!”  
“I wanna pay, Magaly!”  
“No! ¡Digo que no!”  
They fought playfully for a moment, each stubbornly pushing the bills into the other's hands.  
Mr. Ramon raised his drawling voice comically and called to the kitchen.  
“Hey, Ernesto! She out here sayin’ no to money, man! You better come get her!”  
Cynthia and Magaly laughed, the old woman finally pocketing the cash and slapping him on the arm.  
“¡Qué bárbaro!” she giggled, her eyes shining. Cynthia felt a gush of affection for them both as they hugged again.  
Once back in his car, Mr. Ramon handed her a business card.  
“I don't care what Carla says,” he told her seriously at first, “you call me whenever you want. My cell is on the back, for whenever you say yes.”  
The devil was in his voice again, giving her a rush of heat all over.   
What a line! she thought. It shouldn't be working.  
\----  
When Cisco returned to Ramon Industries, operations were mostly returned to normal. Only a handful of techs from the biomechanics lab remained to clear through what was left of their equipment. He listened distractedly as Ms. Carla recounted for him the visit from the building inspector, her hiring of a cleanup crew, and the promise that the human resources department would be submitting a budget for the replacement of all materials and tech by morning.  
Cisco felt like he was floating through it all, the memory of Cyndi coursing through his veins. For the past couple of years, his roller coaster of a relationship with Melinda Torres had been off more often than it was on, so being with someone new gave him an exhilarating rush that he hadn't felt in a long time. He drifted back to his workshop and sat in the center of the room, eyes shut, wondering if, or rather when, she would summon the nerve to call him. She would call him, he was confident of that. Cisco Ramon had learned the hard way when a woman was genuinely into him, and when she was just being nice.   
No, Cyndi Rodriguez would call, and the thought put a smile on his face.  
But his placid fantasy did not last long, as a burst of wind and light shot into the room and Cisco sprung to his feet in an instant. The Flash, in the gold and bold red suit that Cisco had crafted with his own two hands, stood before him, peeling his cowl back to reveal the youthful face underneath.  
It did nothing to dissuade Cisco's anger.  
“Listen, kid,” he spat, “I told you I didn't want you waltzing in here whenever you need a patch job! You can't keep that suit in one piece? Your problem, not mine!”  
Wally West shook his head calmly.  
“I'm not here for that,” the young man said, “I heard about what happened.”  
Cisco sucked his teeth. “Of course you did! Because nothing's a damn secret in here! So? What do you want?”  
“I just wanna help.”  
“Help? How do I know that whole mess wasn't thanks to you?”  
“And why would I do that?”  
“A message maybe? A warning? Something to keep me in line so you and your sister don't drag out old history?”  
“We wouldn't do that! Look, we've tried to tell you before, we're not your enemy here!”  
Cisco wanted to believe the kid. Each held secrets of the other, a relationship that didn't exactly foster trust, but it did serve to keep both sides in check; Cisco provided the Flash with a friction proof suit and kept his identity quiet, and the Wests kept their silence about what happened with Harrison Wells. Cisco often wondered whose ammo was better.  
“Look, no one has any idea what the hell happened,” he said wearily. “None of my cameras picked it up and the police can't find any trace of it.”  
Wally looked pensive. “Sounds like something only a meta would be able to do.”  
Cisco shrugged. “The best they could tell me was that it looked like concussive damage.”  
“All the pressure, without the explosion,” Wally said to himself, crossing his arms. His eyes flicked to Cisco, and the corners of his mouth began to curl into grin.  
“You know, rumor has it that a ghost did it.”  
Cisco rolled his eyes.  
“A ghost,” he uttered in annoyance. “As smart as all those people are and they trade ghost stories at the water cooler!”  
“You don't believe in ghosts?” Wally asked, smiling widely now.  
“Even if I did, what good does that do me?”  
\----  
Belief in ghosts generally requires two things: embracing the concept of an afterlife, and accepting the idea that there is a veil separating this world from the next. And that perhaps that veil is much thinner than we think.  
Beyond the veil of this reality wandered an aura of sorts, the remains of a once flesh and bone human being like any other. But who this aura had been was an answer that it couldn't seem to reach. Memories, echoes of a life lived came in pieces, scattered and out of focus. There was a childhood bicycle, and then a first car, a wedding, and then an eighth grade science fair trophy. They sometimes flooded in all at once, or else eluded the aura altogether, leaving it nothing to anchor itself to. It was enough to make a man scream.  
A man...   
Yes!   
“It” had once been a man. The aura had been able to grasp that at last.  
And whoever he was, he was attached to this strange building. The aura wandered through its halls and watched its many patrons, seeing, but not seeing.  
He was here, but not here.  
But there was a way through. Of that he was growing certain. And he was growing stronger in this place, this reality just beyond theirs. There were doorways here, glimmering like light through cracked glass. Forcing them open was difficult but he was learning. There were names spoken on the other side that called to him, names he knew. A woman's, evoking a feeling of familiarity, and suddenly he was in a strange room full of peculiar machines and empty desks. It must have been night time, it was so quiet. The room was empty, but he remembered there being a woman who used to sit right here, alone, in the dark and quiet. He remembered her being his friend. He remembered her being there, the night that he seized to be.   
The memory made him angry, and that anger pulsed, then burst, burst clean through to the other side. Their little machines flew apart in pieces.   
The mess made him smile.  
The mess made them talk.   
Ghost, they were calling him.  
That made him smile, too.


	6. Wine and Tequila

Over the next few days, Cynthia wrestled with herself over his invitation. It was a bad idea. It had to be. Mr. Ramon didn't even know her real name, how could she eat at his mother's table? She couldn't help but feel that lying both to him and his family was a steep price to pay for what she wanted out of him.   
What she wanted…  
Indeed, what Cynthia wanted was the heaviest turmoil of her whole ordeal.   
Cynthia wanted the best story of her career. Cynthia wanted to be the next Iris West. Cynthia wanted lunch dates at Ernesto's. She wanted soft, full lips pressed against her skin and her fingers running through silken hair.  
Cynthia was in wanting.   
Damn it, she wanted Francisco Ramon.  
She threw herself into her work, her workouts, and found herself aggressively cleaning her apartment til one in the morning. But no amount of sweat, scrubbed tile, or high society gossip did anything to help Cynthia sort through her indecision. So she did the next logical thing, and when she opened her front door at seven o'clock sharp, Iris, Linda, and Octi the octopus were waiting for her.  
“Thanks for coming, guys,” she said.  
“No-o-o problem!” Linda answered excitedly, wiggling Octi for emphasis.  
“Did you bring the wine?” Cynthia asked. Iris scoffed and reached down, dragging a canvas bag full of at least half a dozen bottles into the apartment.  
“Damn, Iris!” Cynthia cried. “You know, when most people go to the corner store, it's to get milk and pads, not wine and… more wine!”  
“Hey!” Iris retorted, incensed, “We haven't done Moscato Monday in a while, so it’s just been piling up!”  
“Which we're going to make up for tonight, ladies, so let's get started!” Linda hooted, striding inside and straight to Cynthia's kitchen cabinet. Iris popped the cork on the first bottle and Cynthia poured out three glasses.   
“A toast!” Linda announced dramatically. “To good friends…”  
“Good stories…” added Iris.  
“And bad decisions!” from Cynthia, before downing her entire glassful, leaving Iris and Linda gagging on their first sip.  
Iris sputtered, “What the hell did you do now, Cyn?”  
“Nothing yet, but…”  
And she laid it all out for them, the 34th floor, her first failure, lunch at Ernesto's, and finally, Mr. Ramon's challenge. The women sat in stunned silence in Cynthia's living room, Iris on her sofa, Linda in her armchair. Cynthia sat cross legged on the carpet.   
“So, lemme get this straight,” Linda began, her cheeks already flushed with her second glass, “You went on an impromptu lunch date with a billionaire after a ghost blew up his bio-whatever lab, and now he wants you to meet his mom?”  
Cynthia hadn't considered it in such blunt terms. It left her feeling a bit foolish. “Yeah, I guess when you put it that way, it sounds… pretty wild.”  
“Pbbt! I'll say! Even I don't move that fast.” Linda took another gulp.  
Iris had barely drank any of her first cup, instead sitting on Cynthia's couch and listening, her face growing grave.  
“I know you wanna say something, Iris,” Cynthia prompted. She knew her too well.  
Iris sipped her wine before speaking.  
“Cyn, don't you think this thing is getting too personal?”  
Cynthia shrugged, trying not to betray just how much she was worried that Iris was right. “Isn't that part of the whole thing, though?” she asked. “To get up close and personal?”  
“It is but… Cyn, there's a difference between what you do in an investigation, and what you would do when you're undercover. That's what you're doing now.”  
Cynthia grabbed the bottle and drank. Iris continued.  
“Investigation is supposed to be knocking on doors, chasing leads, interviewing! You went full blown narc on your first go! And all you've got right now is a ghost story?”  
“That's just it, Iris,” Cynthia responded heatedly, sitting on the sofa next to her friend, “If I'm already in over my head, why not keep going? Get what I came for?”  
“Do you not care about keeping your job now, or what?!” Iris demanded incredulously.  
Cynthia glared. “If I get fired, at least I'll go out doing what I've always wanted, not another spread on Tiffany Shelley's carefully coordinated crotch shot!”  
Linda perked up. “She showed her junk in public again?”  
“Uh huh, this time at Amanda Smith's wedding reception.”  
Linda nodded knowingly. “She's networking.”  
Cynthia snorted into her wine, but Iris was still eyeing her with frustration.  
“Why do you always handle your shit like a dog with a bone?” she said somberly.  
Cynthia didn't answer. She stared into her empty wine glass. Silence hung heavy among them for a moment. Linda had had enough and shot to her feet.  
“Well, then!” she said, a little too loudly, “You two are being a bummer so I'm gonna be the adult here and grab us another bottle!”  
Iris and Cynthia breathed out a laugh. Cynthia looked to her friend, her wise, caring, and well intentioned friend.  
“We outta catch up to her, huh?” she said with a smile.   
Iris smiled back, all of their annoyance with each other melting away.  
“Yeah,” she agreed, “before it's the Pride and Prejudice viewing party all over again!”  
As if on cue, Linda called from the kitchen.  
“Here's my thing,” she said in a booming voice, “Even if you decide to go with him to this thingy at his mom's house, would you even want to? Like, you can say no and ‘get to know him’ some way else!”  
Cynthia felt her heart drop. She'd conveniently left out the part of her story where she spent the past three days trying to force him from her mind.  
Linda returned with a newly opened bottle and refilled their glasses.  
“I mean if he's anything like the rich a-holes that I interview for sports, you can't be having a good time,” she said.  
Cynthia cringed a bit.  
“He's not… bad, he's actually a pretty nice guy.”   
“A nice billionaire? Who ever heard of such a thing?” Iris asked sarcastically. Cynthia kept her eyes glued to her coffee table, already feeling heat creep up her neck.  
Linda waggled her brows. “Hey Cyn, with all that money of his, you think maybe he's compensating for something?” She giggled to herself.  
Cynthia bit the tip of her tongue before speaking.  
“I think maybe he is, just not like how you're thinking,” she said softly. Iris peered at her. Cynthia went on.  
“It's like he's insecure about something. I don't know, he was different with me at lunch. He was… sweet, and charming, and funny. He's too nice for a rich guy, to be honest. And I think that's his problem.” She thought back to the first time she met him.  
“...perfectly suitable by everyone's standards.”  
“I think he's trying so hard to be someone else, and he wants someone to see the real him,” she wondered aloud. Her friends were staring strangely at her now.  
“Awww!” fawned Iris.  
Cynthia whipped her head towards her.  
“What?”  
Iris broke into a huge smile, “Cynthia's got feelings!”  
“Ew!” Linda squealed.  
Cynthia rolled her eyes to the ceiling.  
“Is he cute, at least?” Linda asked her.  
Her voice caught in her throat. Cynthia knocked back some more wine to clear it before answering, “Yeah, he's nice, I guess.”  
Iris gave her a look of disbelief. “Cynthia Reynolds doesn't go for ‘nice’ looking guys!” she mocked.  
“Just because you've never seen me with one-”  
“Nah nah no no!” Iris cut her off, wagging her finger in Cynthia's face, “Cynthia Reynolds dates gym bros!”  
“I date athletes, not gym bros!” Cynthia cried, offended.  
Linda sucked her teeth. “Cyn, you're my friend and I love you, but you ain't dating athletes.”  
“Screw you!” Cynthia snapped back, Iris cackling next to her.  
“I'm a professional, Cyn, I know what I'm telling you!” Linda slurred, and Cynthia couldn't help laughing in spite of herself.  
She hadn't had fun like this with her friends in ages, and within the next whirlwind of an hour, Iris ordered takeout, Linda cranked up the sound system, and Cynthia opened up her collection of tacky feather boas and hats. You're already drunk, you may as well be tacky!, was their rule.  
Two and a half bottles later, spread eagle on her carpet, wrapped in a black boa,surrounded by fortune cookies and duck sauce packets, Cynthia was finally bold enough to tell them the truth.  
“You guys?”  
“Hmm?”  
“He actually let his hair down in front of me.”  
Linda, using three boas as a makeshift blanket, stirred on the couch. “So?”  
“ ‘S really pretty.”  
Iris, in her favorite floppy hat and large shades, slurped up the last of the lo mein. “Ramon's a pretty boy?”  
“Mhm. ‘S all soft looking and shit. Like a Biosilk ad.”  
“He can definitely afford it,” Iris said.  
“Cyn,” Linda slurred, “You're lucky I'm not the kind of friend to tell you to just sit on his face.”  
“He'd probably be good at it, with those plush lips o’ his,” Cynthia remarked.  
“You two need to calm down,” Iris said. Her choice in tacky gear somehow made her look even more serious than she usually did.  
“Cyn,” she said, “I've been thinking about your problem. I know you're not gonna quit, but I think you need to double down on the story side, instead of humoring his human side.”  
Cynthia frowned and began to roll herself up from her position. The room spun before her eyes for a moment.  
“Is it really so bad to ‘humor his human side’?” she asked blearily. “What's the harm?”  
Iris pulled off her comically large sunglasses to regard her properly. Cynthia couldn't tell if it was pity or concern that she saw in those beautiful eyes of hers. Maybe it was both.  
“Cyn, the other shoe is gonna drop on him at some point. The closer you two get, the worse it's going to be for you both. Do you really have it in you to do that?”   
Cynthia hung her head. Iris West had an obnoxious habit of cutting to her core. And of being right.   
\----  
Cynthia wasn't the type of woman to feel guilty when letting a guy down. She had no problem doing it, and rarely did so with grace. This was different.  
Staring at Mr. Ramon's handwritten phone number, Cynthia struggled to string together the words that would let him down easy. She drafted one text message, then deleted it. She wrote another, and deleted that one as well. She erased message after message after message, this one for being too blunt, that one for being too mushy. Every time she thought she had it perfect, Cynthia imagined how disappointed and humiliated he would feel, and it made her hesitate, until it was a day before his brother's birthday and she still had not given him an answer.  
You've gotta do it. Just dive into the deep end.  
She picked up the phone and dialed his number.  
“Hello?”  
She drew a deep breath. “Mr. Ramon, it's Miss Rodriguez -”  
“Oh thank God!” he exclaimed, sounding relieved. “I was starting to think you were never gonna call!”  
Oh no. Cynthia cringed to herself but plowed on. “Yeah, sorry I took so long but -”  
“It's okay! I'm sure you've been busy with other clients and all that. Probably easier to deal with than me, right?”  
You're not making this easy, buddy. “No, that's not it. Um, I've been thinking about your challenge…” she paused, her nerve cracking.  
“Yeah, about that,” he said a little sheepishly, “I'm sorry if I came off aggressive. I got a little full of myself, I guess.”  
Please stop!  
He continued. “So my humble invitation still stands, if you're interested!”   
She could almost hear the smile in his voice.  
God, he sounds so hopeful! she thought. Heart sinking, knowing what a mistake it was, she caved.  
“Alright,” she told him, “I accept.”  
“Okay!” She could tell he was beaming. “Well, it's kind of a daytime thing, so I'll pick you up at four, if that's alright?”  
“Sure, I'll be ready.”  
“Great! Just send me your address and I'll see you tomorrow!” They hung up.  
Iris is going to kill me.  
\----  
Cynthia stood before her mirror and took in her figure. The bold red sheath dress was flattering, but conservative enough to withstand the scrutiny of any mother. But she could see Linda in her mind’s eye, shaking her head.  
Too aggressive. You're meeting his mother, not his ex, she would say.   
Cynthia could easily imagine the thinly veiled, judgmental stare and stiff smile that moms were so good at, tearing her down as soon as she said hello.  
Nope, its coming off!  
And she tossed it into the pile with the rest of her rejected outfits. She was straddling a very thin line with this one, driven to impress Mr. Ramon, while also trying to safeguard herself from family gossip. The last thing she wanted was to send the wrong message. A challenging task, considering she was about to spend the day lying to him and his family.  
Her phone chirped from the nightstand, adding to her sense of impending doom.  
Be there in fifteen!, was his text.  
“Too late to back out now,” she said to herself.  
Her phone chirped again.  
What's your apartment number?  
Cynthia took a moment to respond, debating whether or not there was any harm in telling him.  
I can just meet you outside, she tried.  
His reply was quick, I'm not an Uber I'd like to meet you at your door B)  
She breathed a soft chuckle. “What a dork.”  
Now under a rapidly approaching deadline, Cynthia settled on a soft, French blue dress with a full skirt. She stepped into a pair of heels and slipped her grandmother's gold cross and chain around her neck, stopping in front of her mirror again to survey the effect.  
“Wholesome,” she shrugged.  
There was a knock at her door. Cynthia answered it and froze, taking in the man before her. She didn't know what she expected, but it certainly wasn't this. Gone were the simple suits, ties, and tied back hair. In their place, Francisco Ramon wore a T-shirt with some kind of bright, abstract graphic on it, a dark blazer, and maroon pants. His dress shoes were replaced with pristine Jordan sneakers that were probably more expensive than the former. If he was intent on showing her his real self, Cynthia thought that this was a pretty damn good start.  
“Hey, hope I'm not too early,” he said with a wide toothed smile. Cynthia shook her head. He seemed nervous.  
At least that makes two of us.  
“You look beautiful,” he told her. The heat rose in her cheeks. Suddenly flustered, she stammered, “Mm, thank you, you, too!” Her eyes rolled shut in exasperation as he giggled, looking at her as if she were the cutest thing in the world.  
What the hell was that, Cynthia!, she screamed to herself. Her face was blazing now, but thankfully, he made no mention of her slip up.  
“Shall we go, then, Miss Rodriguez?” he asked, offering his arm. Desperate to recover, she slid her arm through his and tried to pull herself together.  
“Lead the way, Mr. Ramon!” she said as steadily as she could, shutting her door behind them.  
He hesitated. “You know,” he said slowly, “considering the… less than formal circumstances, maybe just call me Cisco?”  
Her breath caught in her throat. Such an innocent request! How could she say no?  
“Sure!” Cynthia said, adding, “And you can call me… Cyndi.”  
“Cyndi…,” he breathed, a little bashfully, and she felt a stab of guilt.  
\----  
Mr. Ramon, or rather, Cisco, slowed the car to a crawl near a modest home on the corner a quaint street in the middle of a beautiful neighborhood that Cynthia had never been to.  
It was a little past four, and the Ramon family must have already received several guests by the time they arrived; the driveway was already full, a car was squeezed alongside a limestone fountain, with another SUV in the grass next to the mailbox. They circled the block and pulled along the fence line to his mother's back yard, Cynthia's stomach clenching painfully as the car went quiet.  
Here we go, she thought in terror.  
As they approached the front door, Cynthia took in his childhood home. The house was a deep golden yellow, with white trim, and Spanish tile on the roof. It reminded her of her tía’s house in the south, a fixture of her own childhood summer vacations. Incidentally, Cynthia had a feeling that Mrs. Ramon was a southerner in some fashion herself; her garden was a nostalgic homage to warmer weather, with boldly colored clay pots arranged on a gravel patch next to the walkway, hedges of hibiscus, box planters with thriving orchids, and even a short cactus growing in a pot on the porch. Cynthia imagined Mrs. Ramon felt every bit as gloomy as she did during winter in Central City, craving the warmth and sun. It was a beautiful home, it's strange familiarity putting Cynthia at ease, if only a little bit.  
Drawing closer to the door, she could already smell the food, and the windows seemed to hum from the voices and laughter within. Cisco hesitated at the door. Turning to face her, he said, “Maybe don't mention what our working relationship is.”  
“Oh?” Cynthia was taken aback.  
“It's not you, it's just, my mom, you know?” he muttered.  
“I get it, don't worry,“ she said, hoping that she sounded sincere. He seemed satisfied. The door was unlocked, and Cisco strolled inside without knocking or hesitation. Cynthia followed, and felt as though she were thrust back in time, everything being so similar to the family parties back home. The traditional bold colored banners hanging over the table, someone’s homemade flan and pastelitos sitting next to the birthday cake, women trotting around in espadrilles, men in crisp linen guayaberas, viejitas sitting in the house’s best armchairs, it was all the same. And there, in the center of the beautiful chaos, was a middle aged woman who Cynthia knew instinctively was Cisco’s mother. She watched as Cisco enveloped her in his arms, his hug somehow firm yet tender all at once. She couldn't hear their voices from where she stood, but he gestured toward her, and Cynthia stepped forward to be introduced, anxiety twisting at her insides.  
“Mamí,” Cisco told his mother, “this is my… friend, Cyndi!” The woman's eyes fixed on Cynthia, scanned her from head to toe, and her eyebrows arched upward ever so slightly. She knows, oh my God! Cynthia thought in a panic.  
“Buenas, señora! It's wonderful to meet you!” she said through her strained smile. Out of the corner of her eye, Cisco was nervously glancing between them, bracing for whatever his mother had in store. The tension was broken as a young man clapped a hand on Cisco's shoulder, and both mother and son grinned, granting Cynthia a minor reprieve.   
“Hermano, you made it!” the young man said. Cisco gave him an exaggerated smirk.  
“Yeah, you know, I had to reschedule sooo many important meetings to be here,” he said in a faux posh accent.  
“I'm sure, Big Boss,” came the sarcastic reply.  
“Niños, no fighting today, por favor!” Cisco's mother warned.  
The young man sucked his teeth. “We're playing, mamí!”  
“Well, enough playing, mijo,” she told him, “your brother has someone to introduce to us!”  
Cynthia was sweating and her mouth was dry by now, but she stitched on a friendly face all the same.  
“Dante, this is my friend, Cyndi,” Cisco announced, “Cyndi, my big brother, Dante.”  
Dante Ramon stood in stark contrast to his little brother in almost every way; with short, cleanly cut hair, and smartly dressed in a neat, button down shirt and black sportcoat, Cynthia realized that Dante looked more the billionaire than Cisco did.   
“Hello, Cyndi,” Dante welcomed her, his voice slightly deeper. He shook her clammy and slightly trembling hand and lingered for a moment too long. Cynthia knew this move well, and so, it seemed, did Cisco. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.  
“So happy birthday, Dante!” he blurted loudly. Dante broke eye contact and Cynthia slipped her hand free, echoing the sentiment.  
“Well, thank you!” Dante smiled. “You know, I told mamí that she didn't need to make such a big deal!”  
Their mother threw him a sardonic look. “Of course not,” she remarked, “because my son turns thirty every day!”  
Cisco snickered. “That's right, you're thirty now!” He gasped dramatically. “Wait, what's this… are, are those crows feet?”  
“Shut up! Where's my birthday gift, rich man?”  
“My presence is a gift.”  
“Whatever.”  
Cynthia noticed that while her sons bantered, Mrs. Ramon continued to scrutinize her strangely. It was hard to tell what was going on behind that stare.   
“Mijo, donde esta Melinda?” she cut in suddenly. Her sons’ demeanors completely changed; Dante clamped his mouth shut and quickly averted his eyes. Poor Cisco flicked his gaze to Cynthia and she could see the embarrassment flooding his face as it turned pink.  
“Um, Melinda's not coming, mamí,” he murmured quietly. “We're sort of taking a break.”  
Mrs. Ramon seemed to swallow his answer, her face a stiff mask of gentility. Cynthia caught Dante turning away to roll his eyes where his brother could not see.  
“I see. Well, Cyndi,” Mrs. Ramon addressed her, “you're welcome to whatever food and drink you'd like. Forgive me, I have other guests to attend to, but I'm sure my sons will be eager to entertain you themselves.”  
Cynthia offered a wan smile in thanks, her confidence sinking somewhere around ankle level. Mrs. Ramon gave her a curt nod, spun on her heel, and moved away, leaving the three of them shifting uncomfortably in the wake of her chilling reception.  
Dante cleared his throat. “I apologize for my mother, Cyndi,” he volunteered. “What say we snatch a bottle of tequila and forget about it, huh? What do you think, hermanito?” He threw an arm around Cisco's shoulders and gave him a squeeze. Cisco nodded, pouting slightly, and Cynthia couldn't help feeling sorry for him.  
They weaved through the house to the kitchen, Dante leading the way, stopping here and there as guests pulled Cisco aside for a hug or a handshake. Cynthia was struck by the overwhelming affection that people here had for him, some even beaming with pride as they held him.  
He's the kid that made it big, for all of them, she realized. Little by little, each encounter seemed to coax him out of his mother's humiliation, his spirit and humor restored by the time they reached the kitchen's bar.   
“What's up, Chavo!” he called to a tough looking man with tattoos on his neck and arms about their age.  
“Don't call me that no more, man!” he said in a gruff voice, pulling Cisco into a quick hug. The image would've been comical to Cynthia if she didn't feel so out of place.  
“Yeah, he doesn't like that anymore,” Dante confirmed from the liquor cabinet. “You gotta call him César now.”  
“Oooh, Céssssar! ¡Que macho!” Cisco mocked. “What happened to Chavo? Not good enough for you anymore?”  
César sucked his teeth. “C'mon, man, that was like, twenty years ago!”  
Dante pulled in close to Cynthia. Faking a whisper, he asked, “Wanna know why we called him Chavo?”   
“Shut up, man! I'm outta here!” César whined. “You lucky it's your birthday, man!” he called as he walked away.  
“All those tats don't make you hard, César!” Cisco yelled back. César threw a middle finger over his shoulder, making Cisco and Dante laugh. Cynthia couldn't, still too nervous and out of her element to muster even a polite giggle. Cisco must have taken her silence for disapproval.   
“Don't worry about him, that's how we play!” he reassured her quickly. “Inside joke from the old neighborhood, I really can't roast anyone like that unless I've known them for awhile -”  
“Yeah, right,” Dante quipped, and Cynthia let them see her smile if it meant putting them at ease. Cisco relaxed and started to ease down onto a stool before Dante was on him again.  
“Don't get comfortable, here,” he said, passing Cisco a beer. “Take that with you when you go say hi to Tío Carlos.”  
Cisco sprung to his feet without argument and took the bottle.  
“Where is he?”  
“In the back, he's working the grill and watching the pig,” Dante told him. Cisco disappeared through a sliding glass door, leaving the two of them alone.   
Dante leaned toward her from across the bar, pouring her a glass of tequila. “I am sorry about my mother,” he repeated, “It's nothing personal, it's just…”  
“I'm not Melinda,” she finished for him. She took a gulp to calm her nerves.  
Dante have her a curious look. “Do you know about Melinda?”  
“Sort of,” she replied breathily, blowing out the liquor’s heat. “An old girlfriend, from what I gather.”  
“That's putting it mildly. Melinda's not just the ‘old girlfriend’, she's the first girlfriend. First crush, first love, whatever you wanna call it. Pretty sure my mom has had their wedding invitations ready to go since they were in the eighth grade.”  
Cynthia downed the whole cup.  
“Are you alright?” Dante inquired, no doubt noticing her wincing through the flames burning down her throat. Tequila wasn't her strong suit, but Dante took her watering eyes for something else.  
He raised a brow. “I thought you two were just ‘friends’?”  
“We are!” she rasped. Dante chewed on that for a moment, his eyes searching her face, and Cynthia could suddenly see his resemblance to his mother. The glass door slid open and Cisco stepped through, beaming from ear to ear. Cynthia took the opportunity to change the subject.  
“I'm just feeling a little out of place here, that's all,” she continued to tell Dante.  
Cisco shook his head. “You shouldn't be! These are your people!”  
“Are you Puerto Rican?” Dante asked her.  
She shook her head. “Mexican-Cuban.”  
Dante and Cisco quickly exchanged an amused glance before Cisco warned her, “Uh oh, don't let Mamí hear you say that!”  
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. “Why?”  
“Because Mamí’s half Cuban, too!”  
“And she'll never shut up about it if you get her started!” Dante added, pouring his brother a drink.  
“Oh,” Cynthia laughed in relief, “yeah, we're a pretty proud people!”  
“So you're not gonna freak out about that pig we've got roasting in a box back there, are you?” Dante asked.  
The tequila must have worked its magic on her, otherwise Cynthia never would've told them, “Are you kidding? I've prepped one myself before!”  
Dante looked impressed, but Cisco gave a disgusted shudder.  
“See, that's the part I can't handle!” he exclaimed. “I can eat it, but don't let me see you kill it!”  
“You think that's bad, pray you never see what we do with the chickens,” she teased him. “ My grandma could yank the heads off with her bare hands!”  
“Damn!” Dante chuckled.  
“They used to have me do the plucking,” she went on.  
“Okay, that doesn't sound so bad,” Cisco said with a cringe.  
“You gotta hold it by its legs, dunk it in hot water to loosen the feathers, and pluck em out! The smell…”  
“Stop!” Cisco whined loudly, and Cynthia busted out laughing, Dante making crunching and chewing sounds at his little brother.  
The ice finally broken, the three hung out at the bar, swapping stories, the boys reminiscing about old times, Dante keeping the tequila flowing the whole time. As they worked their way through the bottle, the Ramon brothers learned that Cynthia was from California and missed cactuses; she discovered that Cisco had bullies throughout school, and that the local tomboy, Mariana, taught him self defense in exchange for his bike.  
“So you know how to fight, huh?” she inquired coyly.  
Already flushed from drink, Cisco ducked his head down, a mixture of both pride and embarrassment on his face. “I can hold my own,” he smirked, matching her tone.  
“You should train with me sometime,” she said, softer, inviting.  
A flicker of something like hunger entered his gaze, and had this been an average bar, on an average night, Cynthia knew she would've had him. But this was his mother's house, and this was messy, and complicated. And Dante Ramon wasn't having it.  
“You'll probably kick his ass, Cyndi,” Dante cut in, “I know I still can!”  
Cisco's nostrils flared as he eased back, and she could see him tamping down the craving she had left him with, his eyes never leaving hers. Another time, another place, it felt like he was telling her. He rounded on his brother and took the bait.  
“I know something I can still beat you at…”  
“Oh, yeah?” Dante challenged.  
“Yeah. How about we settle this, as we did in the olden days?” Cisco dropping his voice into a parody of Gandalf.  
Dante and Cisco led her down a hallway, away from the noise. Cynthia realized they were leading her to a back bedroom, and even in her buzzed stupor, her suspicions were raised. Years of self defense training and general experience as a woman had her wary of their intentions, and she slowed down to let the other two overtake her. Enter last, exit first, she told herself, just in case.  
She needn't have worried.   
“This is my old room!” Cisco announced cheerfully. Cynthia cast a glance about the room, noticing that Cisco Ramon's personal fashion may as well have been pulled straight from these walls. Movie posters were tacked on everywhere, with Star Trek and Charlie Chaplin featured prominently. His nightstands and dressers were lined with figurines and models of cartoon robots, Cynthia recognizing a gundam or two among them. The desk and bookcase were packed with old textbooks, fantasy and sci-fi novels, comics, and biographies on world renowned scientists. It was a nerd’s room, through and through.  
He's really just a big kid, with a ton of money, she thought, Ms. Tannhauser's words coming back to her.  
Mr. Ramon loves his toys.  
Cisco sprawled into his plaid sheeted bed, a Princess Bride poster overhead, and hugged the pillow. “My old friend!” he cooed.  
“Get up and let's do this!” Dante called to him, powering up the tv and an old PlayStation 2 on the dresser. Mystified, Cynthia stood awkwardly as the brothers perched themselves on the edge of Cisco's bed with controllers in their hands, Mortal Kombat Trilogy blazing onto the screen. Cisco scooted along his bed to make space for her.  
“You want the code?” Cisco asked his brother.  
“Yeah, I wanna be able to kill you,” Dante responded.  
“The one button fatalities?” Cynthia piped up. Both men looked at her with eyebrows raised. “Oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes, “You can't seriously think boys were the only one playing this!”  
An impressed smile spread across Cisco's face. “Alright, alright, girl,” he drawled, nodding his head, “I'll tell you what, after I beat this foo’, I'm challenging you!”  
“Sounds good to me!” she agreed.  
Ten minutes and five bouts later, Cisco and Cyrax emerged the victor, the best of three out of five. Dante relinquished the controller to Cynthia with an exaggerated groan and sat in Cisco's desk chair.  
“Okay, where's my girl?” Cynthia muttered to the screen. She scrolled quickly through the game roster and picked out Mileena. Five minutes in and she was winning.  
“You can't keep doing that… breach and kick thing over and over!” Cisco cried, laughing.  
“Why not?!” she laughed back.  
“It's cheating!”  
“It's winning!”  
“FINISH HIM!” growled the game. Mileena breathed in Cyrax with a smooch, then promptly spat out his bones, her jaw monstrous and unhinged.  
“Mileena wins! Fatality!”   
Cisco's mouth hung open in exaggerated shock. “How could you do that to me?” he asked innocently.   
Cynthia shrugged. “I've always been called a man eater. Mileena just gets me.”  
“What-ever!” he mumbled, flinging himself back onto his bed.  
“So, hermano,” Dante interrupted, “you know Mamí’s going to kill you for not bringing a present, right?”  
“¡Dios mío! I got you a present, you big baby!” Cisco moaned. “I gave it to Mamí to hold onto just in case something happened and I couldn't make it! Why? Do you want it now?”  
Dante smirked. “I'm not going to say no to a present!”  
“Unless it's a bad one!” Cynthia teased.  
Cisco rose from the bed and gave her a wink. “I think you'll find that I give the best presents.” He left, and she was once again alone with his brother. And once again, he leaned in close.  
“He likes you,” he said quietly.  
Cynthia sputtered unintelligibly for a second before he continued.  
“And from what I can tell, you like him.”  
She clamped her mouth shut.  
“I like seeing what he's like with you. He hasn't been himself in a long time. Money changes things.” Dante sat solemnly, staring into nothing in contemplation. Curiosity blossomed within her, and she was tempted to press the issue, but Dante continued unprompted.  
“He doesn't have the right people around him anymore. I think it's made him close himself off.”  
“When we first met, I thought that he had a confidence issue,” Cynthia stated.  
Dante looked to her in amusement. “Oh, my brother doesn't have a confidence issue, believe me! He's full of confidence. He's earned it, he worked for it. My brother actually deserves what he has right now. Had to choke down a lot of bullshit to get there.”  
Dante looked sad for a moment. “No, Cisco's problem has always been putting what other people want or need over himself. Even when it's hurting him. It should've been easier for him at the top, but there's more expectations than ever.”  
… everyone's standards…  
What Cisco meant by that was rapidly coming into focus.  
“He's trying to be someone he's not,” Cynthia surmised.  
Dante nodded. “Don't get me wrong, Cisco's a natural born leader, but you saw how people here treat him. Everyone's so proud of him, and now he's afraid to let them down.”  
“How would he even manage that?”  
Dante looked at her seriously. “By being himself. People like us don't get the benefit of the doubt when we fail, or act weird, or even human! Look at this room! You think he gets to show this side of himself to the world?”  
Cynthia felt a lump rise in her throat. Dante was right, she knew. The boy who lived in this room, who built models and dreamed of robots and spaceships, would be torn apart by the press. As a faceless engineer, he was free to be Cisco; but the richest man in America, billionaire CEO, top entrepreneur of the decade, needed to be Mr. Ramon. Dignified, poised, perfect. He hadn't found the balance yet, and Cynthia suddenly felt that maybe, just maybe, it was within her power to help him find it.  
But that's not what I'm here for, she reminded herself guiltily.  
Just then, Cisco returned to the room pushing a large box in polka dotted gift wrap along the floor. It was at least three feet tall, and almost just as wide.  
“Damn, hermano!” Dante blurted loudly.  
“Go big or go home, right?” Cisco replied happily.  
Cynthia raised her feet to let the box scoot by and Dante set to work tearing the wrapping paper off. He split the tall box open along its side, eyes widening as he went. Before long, the box was completely open, and Cynthia and Dante stared with awe at the life size R2-D2 standing in front of them.  
“Cisco…” Dante breathed.  
“It's your first best friend!” Cisco declared triumphantly.  
“Does he do anything?”  
“Yes! C’mon, you think I make stuff that doesn't do anything? Look at who you're talking to!”  
And Cisco proceeded to prattle on the seemingly endless list of tasks that his R2 unit could do: charge Dante's phone, order takeout, sync to his home alarm system, sound system, even digitally project movies onto the wall.  
“You went all out, didn't you?” Dante said in disbelief.  
“Of course, I did,” Cisco answered, affection laced in his voice. “Happy birthday, hermano!”  
Dante smiled, and Cynthia didn't know until then that brothers could love each other so.  
The rest of the day passed beautifully, with everyone feasting on Tío Carlos's delicious food, drinking, dancing, singing happy birthday to Dante, taking selfies with Artoo. By ten in the evening, Cisco, Dante, and Cynthia were the only stragglers left, Cisco dozing on the couch, Dante and their mother somewhere in the kitchen.   
Cynthia lounged on the couch with him for awhile, listening to his soft, steady breathing. He was even softer when sleeping somehow. She found that she enjoyed seeing the boy in him more than she would ever dare to admit aloud, and seeing him nestled peacefully against the sofa cushions brought her a warm pleasure.  
I shouldn't have come here, she thought with a pang. No matter how many times, how many ways she tried to tell herself that she'd done this for the story, they all echoed as lies. This was selfish, what she'd done, playing on his kindness just for the opportunity to feel a little closer to him. After years of three-date relationships and being shrugged off as too aggressive, too much work, maybe she thought she found something more in Cisco Ramon. He could've cut her off that day at Ernesto's when she'd challenged him to his face, but he didn't. And she was starting to think he wasn't the sort of man who would. Indeed, if coming here had shown her anything beyond a doubt, it was that everything that Cisco Ramon did was born in tenderness and passion. It was immortalized in his old room; it was what his family and friends treasured, and missed, the most of him.   
It was what he was afraid to show the world.  
Cynthia unfurled herself from the couch, took off her heels, and flexed her feet. She got up and headed towards the hallway bathroom, passing a barely cracked bedroom door on the way. She could distinctly hear Dante's and Mrs. Ramon's voices on the other side; they must have slipped out of the kitchen to talk in private when Cynthia wasn't paying attention. Willing her breath quiet, knowing there'd be hell to pay if she was caught, Cynthia listened.   
“I don't know what he thinks that little girl has that Melinda doesn't!”   
“There's nothing wrong with her, Mamí. She's a nice girl and Cisco likes her.”  
“What your brother likes and what's good for him are two completely different things! Melinda was good for him, I don't know what he's doing con este perra!”  
Cynthia felt her cheeks burn with rage, but Dante came to her defense.  
“Mamí, por dios! That's not fair! You don't know Cyndi! ¿Y sabes qué? You don't know Melinda anymore either!”  
“I've known that girl since she was ten! She's a good girl!”  
“People change, mamá.”  
“Maybe it's your brother that's changed. Maybe with all this money, he thinks he can play with whoever he wants!”  
Dante sounded angry. “You know Cisco better than that! You know he's not like that!”  
“Who knows anymore, he barely talks to me now! He and Melinda have kissed and made up so many times, he's going to lose her forever if he's not careful! But mark my words! This little girl is not going to last! He'll be back with Melinda before long.”  
There was a pause before Dante spoke again.  
“I hope you're wrong, Mamí. But I know better. As much as Melinda changes, Cisco always crawls back.”  
“Because he loves her!”  
Cynthia felt her stomach clench.  
“Because Melinda has a hold on him,” Dante corrected.  
“That's normal.”  
“That's not healthy, Mamí.”  
Cynthia had heard enough, and she snuck as quietly as she could back to the couch. She wanted nothing more than to get as far away from his mother's house as she could. She gently shook Cisco awake.  
“Hey,” she whispered, “it's getting late and we should go.”  
“Hmm?” came the sleepy mumble. “Okay, I need to say bye to my mom…”  
Cisco peeked himself from the comfort of the couch and trudged to the bedroom that Cynthia had eavesdropped on moments before. Alone on the sofa, she slowly slipped back into her heels, Dante's words clanging violently in her head.  
Melinda has a hold on him…  
Anger and shame pulsed in her veins. Pissed off that his mother would even dare talk about her that way. Embarrassed that she thought that she could ever compete with a first love.  
Melinda… Melinda… what's so fucking special about Melinda!  
Cisco returned to her, groggy but pleased. They passed the ride to Cynthia's apartment in silence, Cisco still too sleepy to chat, Cynthia brooding.  
By the time they reached her front door, she was consumed by her thoughts, and barely noticed that he was fidgeting nervously as she searched for her keys.  
“Um,” he began awkwardly, “I hope you had a good time… all things considered…”  
She didn't answer, instead, staring at the space between their feet, fiddling with her keys.  
There was a beat of painful silence before he tried again, “Look, if it's my mom, I'm really, really -”  
“Its Melinda!” she cut him off.  
More silence, and she could feel heat burning through her, making her eyes water as she fixed them to the floor. Suddenly, he moved against her, and she was inches away from being pressed to her door.  
“Melinda's old history,” he reassured her in a low voice.  
She looked up at him at last, meeting his soft eyes and feeling the guilt of deceiving him rise in her all over again.  
“But your mom said…” she murmured brokenly, but he silenced her with a finger.  
“Don't worry about my mom,” he pressed closer. “And don't worry about Melinda.” He slinked his arms around the small of her back, pulling her in. “Just focus on what we've got now. The rest will fall into place.”  
And just like that, his lips were on hers, hungry, drinking her in, but tender in a way she knew only he could be. Cynthia let herself have this, this one, and possibly the only moment in which she could be his.   
He pulled away slowly, leaning back in to kiss her top lip, to suckle the bottom, and God, she could've had him then. If it warmed her to see the boy in him, what kind of carnal gratification would it be to feel the man he was?   
But it was wrong and she knew it. They parted, and Cisco watched her shakily enter her apartment and close the door. Cynthia listened as his footsteps receded, her heart pounding, the taste of him on her lips, and the tension he'd worked up between her legs was all that she had left of him.


	7. Auras and Silhouettes

Central City prided itself on many things, and being the home of The Flash was right at the top of the list. For over a year, its people marveled over the heroics of the gold and red suited hero, guided by the reports of their resident journalist, Iris West. Bank robbers, gun traffickers, kidnappers, the Flash had tackled them all. But there was a new rash of terror tearing through Central City that even the Flash could not quell.  
The Rival.  
The dark, demonic like speedster was the anti Flash in every way, manifesting in a pulse of angry, red lightning. Whoever he was, he delighted in unabashed mayhem, setting fires and hurling civilians from the tops of buildings as a way to challenge the speed and skill of the city's hero. All with one goal in mind: to prove that he had no rival.  
Juvenile intentions or not, Central City was learning the hard way just how dangerous a man with something to prove can be.  
On this night, the Rival brought his reign of destruction to a bridge full of commuters, speeding back and forth along its path, blocking anyone who tried to escape on foot. Cisco Ramon watched the live coverage from a monitor in his lab with grim resignation. Somewhere, he knew, the West family was frantically trying to coordinate a counter attack, but Cisco could see from his own readings what the Rival's endgame here was.  
He's counting on the vibrations from his momentum to shatter the bridge. There were probably a few dozen people trapped in his wake, and they would plummet to their death if the Rival succeeded. If the Flash didn't get there soon.   
Cisco swore to himself and the Wests that he would keep his head down and out of their little crime fighting operation. The Rival's macabre signature of driving his vibrating fist through the chests of his victims was adequate enough reason for him, but he wasn't heartless, and he knew that there'd be no forgiving himself if he didn't at least warn them.  
He texted Iris and Joe West the same message, “There's no saving the bridge, but you can get everyone off before it crumbles.” Within the next moment, the Flash was on the scene, and Cisco's message must have reached him, for the kid wasted no time trying to battle the dark speedster. Cisco and the rest of the city watched as, one by one, the Flash plucked the hapless victims and rushed them to the outer edges of the bridge to safety. With a gut wrenching roar, it buckled, splitting into heaping stones as it tumbled into the water below.   
The Rival stood across the gaping chasm, arms raised out to his sides, goading the Scarlet Speedster into another race. Cisco watched intently, chewing on his thumb, as Wally West wound up on the opposite side, building up speed before launching himself gracefully across the gap. In the blink of an eye, the two speedsters were gone.  
Cisco allowed himself to feel impressed. The kid's good. He settled back into his chair. His phone chirped, a message from Ms. West scrolling across the touchscreen, “Thank you. You saved a lot of people today.”  
He sighed deeply, plopped the phone on the desk in front of him, and smothered his face with his palms. Life was complicated enough without trying to join Team Flash and their antics. And the world was getting scarier by the day, with thugs getting ahold of advanced weaponry, and new metahumans emerging with terrifying powers.  
“I'm not a hero!” he told himself aloud.  
Something answered him.  
“Coward…”   
Cisco shot to his feet, frantically scanning the shadows for the source of the voice. There was no one.  
“Who's there?” he called to the dark. There was an eerie stillness to the room now, as if something had drained it of its calm, and he felt he was being watched.  
“Who's there?” he yelled again. There was no answer. He blew out a breath, ready to resign the incident to stress, a trick of the room’s acoustics or something.   
Just then, a sharp pain split his temple, and suddenly he couldn't see, save for a pulsing, strobing blue light forcing the room to spin. A voice roared in his head, pained, tortured, strangely familiar, yet alien all at once.  
“... who… who?” it cried, “WHO!”  
Cisco cried out in terror and agony, the blue light pulsing once more, the voice in its anguish deafening to him as the room spun back into focus, until he realized the voice was his.  
“Who am I… who am I,” he panted, a panicked echo of the voice’s last question, his body strewn on the cold, hard floor. Cisco drew a shuddering gulp of air and tried to haul himself up. He tasted iron on his lips; there was something warm streaming down his face. He gingerly felt around for a wound somewhere, believing that he'd hit his head on his way down. But he drew his fingers back from underneath his nose and saw his fingertips coated in dark, red blood.  
His head aching, his body weak and shivering, bleeding from his nose, Cisco fumbled for his phone and called Carla.  
\----  
He laid in the medical bay of his lab, Carla Tannhauser standing next to his bed. If it wasn't for her furrowed brow as she regarded the images before them, Cisco would've taken comfort in seeing her in her lab coat again. But the severity of her expression frightened him, and he knew that whatever it was that she saw in those pictures, it was bad news. He wanted to sit up, but waves of nausea knocked him back every time he tried. It was more comfortable on his back.  
“Give it to me straight, doc,” he joked feebly.  
She didn't laugh.  
“Cisco,” she spoke gravely, “the only thing I can call this is a stroke.”  
Cisco forced himself up onto his elbows. “A what?!” he blurted in disbelief.  
“A mini stroke, to be more specific. But at your age and with your good health, there's only a handful of causes.”  
“What do you think it is?”  
She regarded him with concern. “Stress is usually a major variable.”  
Cisco sighed in exasperation and plopped back down into the bed. “I promise you, I am not stressed!”  
“Everyone says that.”  
“Well, it's the truth, alright?”  
“Hm. What about this voice that you claim you heard?”  
Cisco lay silent, unsure of whether or not he had the words to describe what it was like. Hearing, but not hearing. Thinking, but not thinking. A voice that didn't belong to him somehow being spoken into his mind. How do you articulate that to a doctor without landing in a psych ward?  
“Maybe you're right,” he said instead, “maybe it's just all in my head.”  
\----  
Whether Cisco knew it or not, he really did make Cynthia's job easier when he invited her out. Her first misguided attempt at designing for him relied heavily on the same mistake that everyone else made: trying to shape him into the cookie cutter, red carpet walking bore that people expected a billionaire to be. But Cisco Ramon was anything but a bore, and she wouldn't make the same mistake twice. It had taken her nearly a week to get ahold of all the swatches, but she was ready.   
“Either you're cheating on a test over here,” came Linda's voice from behind her, “or you've got a drinking problem and you're hiding the bottle in your desk drawer!”  
Cynthia swung around in her chair, giving her friend a sardonic stare. “Its my portfolio for Cisco, calm down.”  
“Oooh, so he's Cisco now!” Linda said in exaggerated intrigue. “Getting awfully comfortable with him, wouldn't you say?”  
Cynthia reflexively ducked her head, trying to avoid Linda's penetrating eyes. “It's an ongoing working relationship. We were bound to end up on nickname basis!”  
“Doesn't count if he doesn't even know your real name,” Linda reminded her.  
This wasn't a subject Cynthia wanted to talk about. She tried to move on.  
“Anyways, I still have to get approval from Ms. Tannhauser if we're going to go ahead on this,” Cynthia said. “That woman has more input than I'm comfortable with, to be honest.”  
Linda's brow furrowed. “Tannhauser?” she asked. “As in, Carla Tannhauser?”  
Cynthia cocked her head in surprise. “Yeah! How did you know that?”  
“It's not a common name,” Linda answered. “I did an interview with her a couple of years ago.”  
Cynthia was confused. “You interviewed a secretary for the sports page?”  
Linda shook her head. “Of course not! Carla Tannhauser is a biomechanical engineer, not a secretary!”  
Cynthia sat up straight in her chair. “She's Cisco Ramon's assistant now!”  
Linda bristled in indignation. “Well, she wasn't when I interviewed her! Dr. Tannhauser was experimenting with advanced robotic prosthetics for athletes! That's what my article was about.”  
“Prosthetics?” Cynthia was having a hard time absorbing what her friend was telling her.  
“Mhm!“ Linda went on. “Said she was inspired to specialize in the field because of something that happened to her son, like he had an accident in the snow or something? I don't know, I'd have to look it up again.”  
Cynthia shook her head. “Don't bother, I'll look into it.”  
Just then, Scott Evans turned up at her desk.  
“Reynolds!” he barked quickly. “Just giving you the heads up, I need you to cover the Ramon Industries anniversary banquet in a few weeks!”  
She felt her face blanch. “Anniversary... banquet?”   
“The one year anniversary of the founding of Ramon Industries!” he told her. “All the industry heavy hitters will be there, including some of your high society staples. I expect at least a two page spread, so keep your eyes peeled!”  
He sped off, and Cynthia spun back around to Linda in horror.  
“How the hell am I supposed to keep my cover with Cisco if I'm covering his big night!”  
\----  
Curiosity got the better of her right around one a.m, and Cynthia punched “Dr. Carla Tannhauser” into her search bar.   
Linda was right; Ms. Tannhauser had been more than just an assistant during Harrison Wells’ tenure. Not only had she been a biomechanical engineer, she had been the head of the whole biomechanics lab! Cynthia found Linda's old article; to her shock, Carla Tannhauser had switched fields after her son, Charlie, suffered nerve damage when he fell into an icy lake while the family was on vacation. Dissatisfied with traditional prosthetics, Tannhauser joined S.T.A.R Labs to push the boundaries of robotics and to further the understandings of biomechanics, so that patients like her son could regain fine motor function.  
Cynthia tried to wrap her head around it. How does an accomplished doctor and engineer end up being little more than an assistant to a billionaire CEO? She continued her search, and before long, she stumbled upon an old photo of her in her lab during the reign of Wells. Carla Tannhauser stood before a prototype of a skeletal bionic hand, a tall, weedy looking man that Cynthia took for Dr. Wells by her side. Leaning cheerfully against the display was an even younger Francisco Ramon, baby faced and seemingly unfettered by a CEO’s responsibilities.  
Drs. Tannhauser and Wells pose with their latest prototype, accompanied by engineer Francisco Ramon, in S.T.A.R Labs’ biomechanics lab.  
Cynthia enlarged the photo as much as she could. The prototype was displayed atop a workstation, accompanied by a picture frame of two children that Cynthia knew had to be Carla's, a son and a daughter. The workstation looked familiar… or at least it would have, if it weren't in pieces.   
The explosion… it was centered near her old desk…  
Cynthia sat with that for a long time. This was no coincidence, she knew. That someone had destroyed Ms. Tannhauser’s old workspace nearly one year after Cisco Ramon had transformed his predecessor's company into his own…  
There was something there.  
She could feel it.  
\----  
“It’s certainly not what I envisioned, but I like what you’ve come up with here,” Ms. Tannhauser was saying to her.  
Cynthia sat across from the older woman at the board meeting table of Ramon Industries as she assessed Cynthia’s proposals, Cisco’s basketball hoop hanging absurdly above them. Cynthia felt as though her image of the place was reshaped every time she visited. Cisco’s “toys” could easily be taken as an immature young man with too much money buying unnecessary trinkets, but she knew now that it was just Cisco being Cisco. The basketball hoop, the shrubs and cactuses dotting the halls, were all just small strokes of his personality, affirming for anyone who looked that this place belonged to him.  
With what Cynthia now knew of Carla Tannhauser, her image of the woman had changed, too. She could no longer bring herself to twist from under the woman’s authority, not with the image of her and her son now so vivid in her mind.   
Ms. Tannhauser looked up. “Well, Miss Rodriguez,” she said, “I’m confident that Mr. Ramon will be satisfied with your proposals. As we agreed, I will need for you to sign these.”  
She slid a thin stack of papers across the table, a non-disclosure agreement sitting at the top. Cynthia hesitated.  
“I would feel more comfortable if I could run these by Mr. Ramon first. If he’s not satisfied, we can spare each other the trouble.”  
“Mr. Ramon is not feeling well at the moment,” she was told. “That’s why you’re speaking with me today. Not him.”  
Cynthia’s concern was piqued. “Is he alright?”  
Ms. Tannhauser looked away. “He’s recovering, but I’d rather he get his rest than have to deal with...anything, right now.”  
That did little to comfort her, but she let it go. Pen in hand, Cynthia signed her fake name to the pages, and Ms. Tannhauser escorted her back to the elevators.  
Once inside, her eyes trained on the floor indicator, she spoke quietly to Cynthia again.   
“Mr. Ramon tells me that you joined him for his brother’s birthday.”  
Cynthia’s cheeks reddened. “I did.”  
They were silent, each staring ahead rather than at each other.  
“It’s none of my business,” Ms. Tannhauser continued, “but I would encourage you to maintain some distance.”  
“We’re just work colleagues.”  
“So the two of you are keen to remind me,” came the sardonic reply. The woman sighed deeply. “As I said, it’s none of my business.”  
The elevator reached the 34th floor. The doors chimed open and Ms. Tannhauser stepped off. “Be careful there,” she warned softly, and the doors closed behind her, leaving Cynthia alone and confused.  
As the elevator continued downward, she weighed the woman’s words carefully.  
Be careful with what? With Cisco? She wondered why people seemed so keen to warn her away from Cisco Ramon. Iris and his mother, she could understand, but Ms. Tannhauser? Even her conversations with Dante weren’t exactly encouraging. More of this Melinda business, maybe?   
She couldn’t say for sure, but it still pissed her off. Cisco Ramon was a grown man, a good man, and an accomplished one at that. If he was capable of running his own company, he was more than capable of speaking for himself. That his family and friends took it upon themselves to get in between them rubbed her the wrong way. A thought suddenly occurred to her.  
Who says that I need to go through anyone?  
As far as Cynthia was concerned, Cisco Ramon ran this company. Cisco Ramon ran himself. And if he was in no condition to see her, let him be the one to tell her.  
The elevator reached the bottom floor and dinged open, but she hit the button for the top floor and waited. At long last, she stepped back out into the empty foyer, determination burning through her. With Ms. Tannhauser on the 34th floor, and every prospective visitor having been turned away save for herself, Cynthia was confident that it would just be the two of them. The idea excited her, and she made her way past the board room towards his lab. But when she entered the lab’s cortex, he was nowhere to be seen. She wandered around for a moment, searching for him. The medical bay to her right looked like it had seen some activity recently. The sheets on the bed were disturbed, the equipment askew, as if whoever had used the space did so frantically. Her heart sank as she imagined what could have happened to him to leave the room in such a state of disarray.  
Cynthia walked through the space slowly, trying to glean whatever she could that would tell her what was wrong with him. Her eyes fell on a short file cabinet in the corner.   
Bad idea, Cyn, she told herself. The friend in her knew that it was wrong; the reporter in her was itching to dig in. Reminding herself that there was still a story that she needed to uncover, she let the reporter win. She opened the first drawer and got to work.  
Inventory and purchase reports for medical supplies and equipment. Nothing interesting. The second drawer didn’t offer up much more. Disappointed, she opened the last drawer expecting the same thing. A thick file caught her attention.  
“Tess Morgan-Wells…” she read aloud.  
The vibe of the room seemed to shift, but she reached for the file all the same. Opening the folder, there was a photo of a beautiful woman staring up at her, youthful and glowing. Cynthia thumbed quickly through the pages, catching glimpses of blood tests and full body scans, records of surgeries and experimental drugs. An illness of sorts must have ravaged the woman, for Cynthia landed on a snapshot of her laid up in the same bed not four feet away from her. Tess Morgan-Wells was bald, and pale, rail thin, with hollowed eyes. But the kindness in her eyes was still there. Whoever took the photo of her was dear to her, that much Cynthia could tell, but who it was and what became of this woman would take more time to discover. She stuffed the file in her portfolio and shut the drawer.   
No sooner had the drawer snapped shut when Cynthia felt a hulking presence at her back. Her skin prickled and her stomach lurched in panic. Terrified, knowing that she’d been caught, and that there was no excuse that would save her, she screwed her eyes tight, stood up, and turned to face her accuser.   
There was no one there.  
Cold and scared, she scanned the room for the person she knew had to be hiding, just out of sight.  
“Hello?” she called out in a trembling voice.  
“Tess…” came a haunting hiss of an answer.  
A blue light glowed off the metal panels in front of her, and just then, there was a yank at her hair, snapping her head back painfully.  
Cynthia cried out in pain and terror, whirling around to see what had grabbed her. But there was nothing, and no one, and Cynthia knew she had to get out.  
She skittered in her heels as she rushed out of the med bay, through the cortex, past the board room, speeding towards the elevators with her portfolio clutched to her chest. Heaving and shaking, she let out a yelp as the elevators opened on their own.  
“Hey, you!” Cisco Ramon exclaimed in delight.   
Cynthia felt her knees go weak and she stared up at him in wide eyed horror.  
Cisco’s smile melted away as he took in her white, sweating face.   
“Cyndi, are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to hold her.  
She took a deep, shuddering breath and swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat. Steadying herself, she stuttered out, “I was… I-I was looking for you…”  
“I just got back,” he said, drawing her in closer, concern etched into his face. He felt so warm to her after what happened…  
The file! She pulled away from him, the portfolio still smashed against her chest. Knowing that telling the truth of what just happened would mean confessing to stealing the file, she drew herself up and lied.  
“I wanted to show you my designs,” she said, steadier this time. “I thought that I'd missed you.”  
She couldn't tell if he believed her, but he relaxed and blinked off the tension.  
“Jeez,” he breathed, “You looked like you'd seen a ghost!”  
Cynthia repressed a shudder and shook her head. Cisco smiled at her again.  
“Well, I can't wait to see what you've come up with! Hopefully, you have a tux in there! The anniversary banquet is coming up in a few weeks!”  
He slipped his arm around her waist and began to lead her back towards his lab. Her stomach clenched in fear, but she trudged on by his side. Stepping back into the cortex, she scanned the room quickly, flicking her eyes back and forth between the two adjoining bays, searching for anything suspicious. He sat down and gazed at her expectantly.  
With no choice but to give her presentation, and no good excuse not to, Cynthia reached into her portfolio and withdrew her tablet and materials packet. She felt warmer as she gauged his reaction while she explained her choices of fabric, patterns, colors, and combos that would work best for him, noticing he was far more receptive now than he'd been at Ernesto's.  
“You see the embroidered pattern here?” she explained, “Well, from a distance, it just looks like polka dots. But up close…” He drew the fabric up closer to his eyes. “... you can see that they're actually little starbursts!”  
Cisco was grinning from ear to ear.  
“And as far as formal wear,” she went on excitedly, “I have your usual black and white tux that we can embellish with cufflinks and whatnot, but I also found this…” She swiped through her tablet to a beautiful maroon purple ensemble that practically screamed Cisco Ramon to get when she'd come across it.  
It had the desired effect; Cisco's widened in fascination and his lips parted in a soft “oh”.   
“I think I have a pair of pants in that color,” he mentioned.  
“You do,” she replied, feeling pleased with herself. “You wore them to your brother's party! I thought the color looked amazing on you!”   
She blinked, the words having spilled out of her before she thought to stop them. She quickly tried to avert her reddening face, but a cocksure grin was unfurling around his mouth, and she knew he wouldn't let her ignore it.  
“Oh, I looked amazing, did I?” he teased. “And you figured you'd dress me head to toe in it?”  
“I just mean… it's my job to play to my client's best traits!”  
Cisco leaned back in his chair, splaying his legs a little wider, that devilish smile on his face. It was embarrassing how well it worked on her.  
“And what traits were those exactly, when you were assessing me in my maroon pants?” he inquired in that low voice she'd been dying to hear since that night.  
Cynthia pursed her lips and bit her tongue against the answer she wanted give, scouring her mind for a more civil alternative.  
“The color plays off of your skin quite nicely,” she offered.  
He sucked his teeth. “My skin? Really? That's what you're going with?”  
She smiled coyly and met his eyes steadily this time. “Mhm. That delicious, golden brown skin of yours.”  
The hunger in him returned, she could see it gleaming in his eyes, and God help her, she had such a craving of her own.  
Be careful there…  
Cynthia screwed her face back into a mask of professionalism and cleared her throat.  
“In any case, your formal wear will have to take a couple of weeks to put together but should be ready in time for the banquet. Your every day ensembles are mostly ready to wear with a few adjustments.”  
“You're such a buzzkill,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, if you don't wanna play anymore, I've got some work to do!” He started to roll up his sleeves, and Cynthia noticed something dark around his wrist.  
“Never took you for one of those FitBit wearers,” she observed.  
“Huh? Oh, yeah,” he fidgeted with the bracelet. “My doctor wants me to wear it, monitor my heart rate, stuff like that.”  
He wasn't looking at her, and with the condition of the med bay still fresh in her mind, she tried to press further.  
“As young as you are, why would your doctor need all that?” she asked with a soft chuckle, trying to keep the question casual.  
“I'm told stress is a major variable.”  
“Are you stressed?”  
“I don't think so. My doctor thinks I'm lying.” He looked up at her, and she knew the conversation was over. “I don't really wanna talk about it, to be honest.”  
She nodded. “Well, I have to be going now anyways,” she said. “I'll get started on your first batch and let you know how it goes.”  
“Alright, here. Take this with you.” He fished into his pocket and handed her a heavy, black American Express card. “That's a company purchasing card. If you have any trouble with it, just call me. And keep the invoices! Otherwise Ms. Carla will murder us both.”  
Well aware that most people could only dream of such a thing happening to them, she didn't question it.  
\----  
The aura brimmed with fury.  
Hearing the name triggered an onslaught of emotion it had not yet experienced. Pain, longing, grief…  
Tess…  
A memory of a face, a touch it hadn't felt in so long.  
Touch…  
He could touch them now. He had reached into the familiar young man's mind and begged for an answer, but he'd hurt him.  
This strange, unwelcome woman, who'd come into this place with lies on her tongue, she stole something. Something private. Something that was his, and he hurt her, too.  
Tess… Morgan… Wells…  
Wells…  
Understanding was just out of his reach, but he was clawing his way closer to it.  
Even if he had to claw his way through them.


	8. Old History

“Jesus!” Linda exclaimed, weighing the heft of the credit card in the palm of her hand. “It's like holding a gold brick or something!”  
“You're telling me!” Cynthia returned. “I've never even touched one of these until today!”  
“What kind of limit do these things have?” Iris asked in fascination.  
Cynthia's voice dipped into a disbelieving whisper, “I don't think it has one!”  
The women blew out a breath.  
“So you're really doing this,” Iris said. “You're really going to give Cisco Ramon a makeover to get to this story of yours!”  
“I don't think I have much choice at this point. I'm kind of ‘in too deep’, as cliche as it sounds.”  
“Just make sure you don't fall any deeper, if you know what I mean,” Linda said, wiggling her eyebrows.  
“Aren't you the one who suggested I sit on his face?” Cynthia reminded her.  
“That was two-bottle-Linda! You know better than to listen to her!”  
Cynthia caught Iris’ look and she did not seem at all amused.  
“I know, Iris,” she reassured her, “I know how you feel about all this.”  
Her friend sighed in defeat. “I just wish that had been enough to stop you.”  
\----  
Cynthia used to be religious about her sleep. Eleven p.m at the latest, otherwise she was a groggy and irritable husk of a human being, and even her love affair with coffee wouldn't save her.  
But staying up into the wee hours of the morning had become the new norm, scouring the internet for clues, scrapping together men's wardrobes, while still hammering out articles for the paper.  
Tonight, her focus was on the thick file she pulled from Ramon Industries with Tess Morgan Wells’ name on it, the entirety of which was the woman's devastating medical records. The wife to the infamous Harrison Wells had been diagnosed with leukemia back in 2013. The cancer ravaged her quickly, and from what Cynthia could tell, chemotherapy had done just as much harm to the poor woman as good. An ignorant and conservative government drove the final nail in her coffin; strict restrictions on stem cell research made it impossible for the Wells to put their resources into searching for an innovative cure.  
So Tess and Harrison went dark. There were pages and pages of research in Tess’ file that went beyond government sanctioned medicine, detailed accounts of their use of experimental drugs and procedures. Harrison Wells seemed determined to try absolutely anything, but his wife still faded. In 2015, her compromised immune system had been unable to fight off a bout of pneumonia, and she passed away.  
There, in S.T.A.R Labs.  
It was heartbreaking enough just to read what had become of such an intelligent and driven young woman. Cynthia couldn't imagine what it could have been like for Dr. Wells to watch it happen first hand. To bear witness to your soulmate's slow, painful, and losing battle to a cruel disease… It would have made anyone lose their mind.  
Cynthia felt as if she'd swallowed something cold. She knew just as much about the S.T.A.R Labs incident as anyone else, which was to say, not much. But everyone knew that Harrison Wells had not come out of it alive.   
Rumor had it that he had not come out at all.  
A ghost…  
If anyone in that building had it in them to come back as a wrathful specter, it was definitely Harrison Wells.  
The memory of that hideous, otherworldly voice in the lab came back to haunt her, and staring around her darkened bedroom, she couldn't help but shudder.   
\----  
“Jeez, Cyn! I don't think vigilante reporting suits you very well!”   
Iris was cringing at her in horror. Linda shook her head despondently while slurping from the straw of her water bottle. In a rare opportunity, the three of them managed to make their gym date at the same time. While none of them were strangers to fitness, Cynthia had always been the beast of the three. But she barely made it through round one of HIIT training. By round two, she was lagging behind. Round three, her form completely fell apart and she laid on the mat while the other two finished their jump squats. Now, they sat cross legged across from her, with their flushed, and sweaty, judgmental, still-sickeningly-beautiful faces.  
She hated them.  
“I had a bad night, okay? Cut me a damn break!” she groaned from the mat.   
“That gamer bro next door keep you up again?” Linda asked.  
“No.” She thought about telling them the truth, but she was too exhausted to argue with herself. “Something weird happened. Kept me up.”  
“With Cisco?” from Iris.  
“Not directly,” she peeled her face off the mat to look at them. “Honest to god question, do you guys believe in ghosts?”  
Linda nodded quickly. “I do, and I do not mess with them!”  
Something flickered on Iris’ face when Cynthia asked, and instead of answering, she asked a question of her own, “What do ghosts have to do with Cisco Ramon?”  
Cynthia gathered herself back up into a sitting position and recounted what happened in the med bay, about her stealing the file, the disembodied voice, the ghostly blue light, and the hand that snatched at her hair. Linda's eyes went wide as dinner plates and she hugged her knees. Iris looked intrigued.  
“How the hell does a ghost turn up in Ramon Industries?” she breathed.  
“So you believe me?” Cynthia asked, shocked.  
“Well, I know you're not a fool. If you say something attacked you there, something attacked you. And a ghost is as good a name for it as any, I guess.”  
Even Linda looked surprised. Iris didn't notice.  
“If it is a ghost, who do you think it is?” she continued, unperturbed.  
Cynthia bit her lip before replying. “I'm starting to think it's Harrison Wells.”  
Linda and Iris exchanged a look.  
“What do you guys remember about the incident over there, at S.T.A.R Labs?” she asked them. “I was still away at college when it happened.”  
Iris shrugged. “It happened pretty fast. Everyone was just, minding their own business when all of a sudden…”  
Linda snapped her fingers. “The place went up in a beam of light!”  
‘It was like it was glowing, like a beacon.”  
“And then it popped! And this blast wave rippled through the city! Blew out my windows!”  
“People who came out of that building said that Dr. Wells went crazy and tried to blow the place up.” Iris paused. “Are you thinking it has something to do with that night?”  
“If it's true that that's the night he disappeared, then it has to be!” Cynthia responded. “What did he use, to try and blow up the place?”  
“Something called a particle accelerator,” Iris shrugged. “I don't know what the hell it's supposed to do but Wally was excited that they were building one.”  
“Hmm. Well, looks like I'll have to spend another night looking that up.” Cynthia got up and stared at the sweat slicked outline she left on the mat.  
“That is the single grossest thing I've ever done.” The girls laughed.  
\----  
“Okay, Google, here we go again,” Cynthia sighed. Back in her apartment, sitting at her desk in her sweats and a hoodie, Cynthia began to read through reports of the S.T.A.R Labs particle accelerator. The science of it was lost on her, as usual, but an article from 2012 caught her attention.  
S.T.A.R Labs announces construction of particle accelerator  
2012… before Tess was diagnosed…  
“The brainchild of co-founder Tess Morgan Wells, the particle accelerator is slated for completion by December 2015. ‘It's sort of become my baby,’ says Morgan Wells of the project. ‘I can't wait to see it all come together!’”  
2015… Tess died before it was finished…  
Another article from early 2015: S.T.A.R Labs co-founder laid to rest   
Then another, smaller one, a few months later: Engineer severs ties with S.T.A.R Labs  
The article was short, but the gist of it was that Cisco terminated his contract with the lab for an undisclosed reason.  
I need to find out what happened there.  
Luckily, she had a way of finding out. Cynthia plucked her phone from the nightstand and called him.  
“Hello?” Cisco answered, not sounding the least bit groggy despite it bring almost one in the morning.  
“Hey, I know it's super late…” she said by way of apology.  
“No worries, it takes me awhile to fall asleep anyway! What's up?”  
Cynthia poured on the charm. “Normally, I wouldn't call you so late, but I didn't want to wait… in case I lost my nerve…” She paused for effect.  
“Oh, yeah?” he said, and she could imagine his look of eager anticipation.  
“I was just wondering, if you'd like to see me again tomorrow night?”  
He was quiet for a beat. When he spoke again, she could practically hear him smiling, “Uh, yeah, yeah, I'd love to see you again, mhm!”  
Gotcha!


	9. A Simple Date

The weather grew cold and wet by the next night, leaving Cynthia with no choice but to abandon her dresses and pencil skirts in favor of jeans, boots, and her favorite leather jacket. She stood in front of her building, shivering and waiting for him to pick her up. When the Prius pulled close, she dove in without waiting.  
Cisco chuckled at her. “Not a cold weather person, are you?”  
“Listen, I don't know how you handle this when you know our people thrive in the heat!”  
He laughed again and started driving.  
“Well, we're not exactly dressed for fancy eating,” he said, “So where do you wanna go?”  
“Wherever that'll let me see Tequila Cisco again,” she answered, eyeing him playfully. He smirked and kept driving, pulling in front of a pub before long.  
“You don't mind spicy food, do you?”  
“You're kidding, right?”  
“That's what I like to hear!”  
\----  
“So, wait! You want me to sneak into Ramon Industries to look for a ghost?”  
Wally looked at his sister as if she'd lost her mind.  
“I'm not saying it's a ‘ghost’ ghost, but something is in there and Cisco Ramon isn't going to tell us about it!”  
“Why would he? He doesn't trust us, thanks to you!”  
The statement hung heavy between them. Anger aside, Iris knew that he was right.  
“Okay, maybe I didn't handle things as diplomatically as I could have…” she began.  
“You think?” her brother mocked, crossing his arms.  
“You got your suit, didn't you?” she snapped.  
“Yeah, I did, but we lost out on everything else Cisco could've offered us!” Wally spread his arms out emphatically. “With his tech, his satellites? We could've been nailed the Rival a long time ago! We wouldn't be struggling like this if we had him on our side!”  
“I am trying to get him on our side Wally!” she cried desperately. “But I can't ignore that those people have been covering up what they did to this city! It's thanks to them that we have metas like the Rival in the first place!”  
“It's thanks to Harrison Wells, Iris! And you can't stand there and judge Cisco for trying to protect his friends when you'd do the same for me! When you are doing the same for me!”  
Iris went quiet, the sting of her brother's words burning her cheeks.  
“Okay,” she started over, “I will try to smooth things over with Cisco. But in the meantime, could you please scope out his lab? If there's a meta brewing in there, I don't want Cyn getting caught in the crossfire.”  
Wally nodded, the heat of the moment washing out of his face. “Yeah, yeah I'll check it out.”  
\----  
“See, I-I can't agree with you there!” Cisco slurred loudly, trying to carry his voice over the din of the crowd. The pub was packed, but the two of them had managed to secure a tall table close to the bar and ordered their shots and volcano tacos. They were both already halfway on their way to drunk when they fell into heated conversation.  
“I think their take on the fantasy genre served the princess archetype better than most of Disney's stuff!” he was telling her passionately. “I mean if Princess Buttercup had been-”  
“Princess Buttercup?” Cynthia lisped back.  
“Yeah, if Princess Buttercup had been like, this super soft Disney princess-”  
“Wait, are you talking about Princess Bride?” Cynthia interrupted again, her liquored mind picking up something wrong.  
“Yeah? Why, what were you…”  
“I thought we were talking about Princess Diaries!”  
Cisco frowned in drunken confusion. “What? Pbbt! Why would I be talking about Princess Diaries?”  
“You talking crap about Princess Diaries?!” she challenged.  
“You will never hear me talk crap about Princess Diaries!” he reassured. “In fact, I used to have a thing for Anne Hathaway! I mean, Ella Enchanted? C’mon!”  
Cynthia laughed.  
“You know,” he went on, “in that jacket you kind of look her Catwoman!”  
Cynthia looked down at her jacket's elaborately stitched swirls and dramatic lapel, and she could see what he meant.  
“I'd make a great Catwoman!” she said, taking a sip of her drink.  
“I know you would!”  
“You know, she's half Cuban, too?”  
“For real?” He looked genuinely taken aback.  
Cynthia was impressed with herself. “Would you look at that? I know something the nerd boy doesn't!”  
Cisco licked his bottom lip and gazed at her sensuously. “Oh, I'm sure there's a lot that you can teach me.”  
She bit the inside of her cheek. If she wasn't careful, she knew she would get swept up in their little dance of words and glances and end up doing something she'd regret. Instead, she crossed her legs against the swell of desire between them and avoided his eyes.  
“Tequila Cisco arrives at last!” she teased.  
“Psh! Like I need tequila to be this dashing!” he exclaimed, running a hand dramatically through his beautiful hair.   
Cynthia sensed an opportunity. “See? That's what I want people to see in you! You're a charismatic guy, but you shut yourself down and try to be someone else!”  
Cisco sighed in disgust. “Do we have to talk about this? We were having a good time!”  
“I'm still having a good time, we can have an important conversation without killing the mood!”  
“Why is this so important to you?” he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably on his stool.  
“Because… I like you!” she told him, with a bit of embarrassment. “I've never met a guy like you. You're obviously smart, you're funny, and charming, and you're kind without acting like people owe you something for it. Do you know how rare that is?”  
Cisco gave a vague shrug, his face pink. Cynthia hesitated before what she had to say next.  
“You know, your brother thinks you're afraid to let people down,” she said carefully.  
He rolled his eyes and looked annoyed. “Jesus, Dante…” he muttered angrily.   
“He loves you,” she said in his brother's defense.  
“I know he does! I just wish he'd keep his mouth shut sometimes!”  
“Is he wrong?”  
Cisco made a face and rubbed his eyes before answering.  
“Look,” he said glumly, “I'm not going to pretend that things weren't a little… easier, back when I was just an engineer. I mean, do you know any engineers, off the top of your head?”  
Cynthia shook her head.  
“Exactly!” he went on. “There was freedom in that! People were proud of me but they didn't get what a mechanical engineer was! But a CEO? That, they can understand! And ever since, everyone's had their idea of what one is supposed to be like! Like I'm not enough on my own!”  
Cynthia shook her head again, saying, “Somehow I don't take you for someone who would care what other people think.”  
“Oh believe me, I got very good at shutting shit like that down,” he said forcefully. “How many brown kids do you see in my position? All the teachers who thought I was some inner city miracle! And the students who had the balls to call me ‘token’ to my face!”  
Cynthia flinched. Cisco drew himself up proudly.  
“But look at me now! And now I've gotta hear some version of it from my own people!” His shoulders sagged. “You'd cower, too.”  
“I don't want you to cower,” she told him, laying her hand atop his. “I want to help you adapt. It's not fair that I'm the only one who gets to see you.”  
His eyes softened, but he was sarcastic when he asked her, “And you really think fashion is going to do that? You're gonna Devil Wears Prada me?”  
She pursed her lips together. “Anne Hathaway would be proud of you, if you did!”  
\----  
True to his word, Wally West sped towards Ramon Industries to search for Cynthia's ghost, lightning cracking behind him like neon. It was long after hours, and the building's exits would be sealed, so there'd be no lobby entrance for him to slip through. But there was a way around that.  
Well, not around…  
The Flash streaked through the parking lot and began to vibrate as he drew close to the building walls, phasing his particles through the spaces between, and popping out on the other side. He continued on, smiling to himself, up the emergency staircase as he always did. Sliding to a stop in Cisco's personal lab, the Flash gave the surrounding rooms a cursory glance.   
How the hell do you look for a ghost? he thought.  
“Maybe I should've brought one of those spirit boxes, like those crazy, white ghost hunter guys,” he said aloud to himself.  
He flicked into each of the adjoining bays, searching for anything that would give him a clue. There was nothing. So Wally tried something else.  
“Dr. Wells?” he called out awkwardly. The room felt strange all of a sudden, and an eerie blue glow was emanating from the hallway. Wally ran towards it and skidded before a strange, blue, bubbling portal above him.  
“Dr. Wells! Is that you?” he called again, louder. The portal pulsed, then winked out, then reappeared in front of the elevators. Wally watched it hover in awed fascination as it began to pulse once more, swirling downward, as if showing him its intent…  
He tore back down the staircase to the next level just in time to see the portal appear, then swirl downward again. On and on he ran, each time arriving to see it wink out of sight, until finally he reached the basement, and the portal led him to an area labeled “Entrance 52”. Wally hesitated, unsure of what to do. The portal disappeared, and Wally knew in his gut that it had passed beyond the heavy door.  
Pumping himself up, hoping that he wouldn't regret this, he vibrated and phased through the door just as before. Materializing on the other side, Wally found himself in a humongous chamber, extending widely on either side of him. The strange hallway, a pipeline of sorts, looked as if it could be miles long.   
“What the hell is this place?” he wondered.  
Blue glowed before him again, pulsing across from him against the opposite wall, and for a second, Wally could see a shadow on the wall in its light. But before he could even think of inspecting it, there was a stab of pain in his temples, and the blue light was strobing within his eyes. The room spun out from under him and he was on his knees, clutching his head in pain. He couldn't see, save for that glow, a flurry of images and sounds he didn't recognize surging through his head. Such pain! And fear! And all he wanted was to run!  
His vision cleared, the pain ebbed, the light was gone, and now so was he, running in terror through the walls themselves and back home, to Iris.   
Ghost be damned.  
\----  
“Okay, my turn! Ummm, most racist thing anyone has ever said to you!”  
Cynthia thought for a moment, boots scuffing the sidewalk as she and Cisco walked along Infantino St.  
“I'm sure there's been worse, but right now, all that comes to mind was the time my boss very tenderly asked, ‘Do you need this job to send money to your family in Mexico?’”  
“Damn!” Cisco blurted, knocking his head back. “Okay, I had a P.E teacher that just, refused, to learn my name! Like, I literally spent two semesters being called Jorge, Reynaldo, Antonio, stuff like that!”  
“Aww, you'd make a cute Antonio!” she cooed, reaching up to squeeze his cheek.  
The tequila long since worn off, Cynthia and Cisco were basking in the simple pleasure of each other's company as they walked aimlessly through the cold streets. They took turns asking questions, learning as much as they could about the other.   
Princess Bride was Cisco's favorite movie; Blade Runner was hers.  
Cisco had an insatiable sweet tooth; Cynthia was hopelessly devoted to coffee.  
He had a weakness for sneakers; she had a collection of switchblades and knives inherited from an uncle.  
Back and forth they went, each gleeful for the other's answer, or else balking in disbelief. And now it was Cynthia's turn.  
“A nerdy thing you're still too embarrassed to admit, even to other nerds!”  
Cisco smiled sheepishly. “Oh man, alright don't tell Dante this but, I lied and told him that I hate spin-offs so he'd leave me alone about my crush on Seven of Nine!”  
“From Voyager? Why is that embarrassing?”  
“I can't tell the other nerds that I like spin-offs! Do you know how protective nerds are of originals?”  
“Okay, okay!”  
“What about you? Something nerdy that you're embarrassed to admit, go!”  
Cynthia blew out a long breath. “I own fifteen different film adaptations of Pride and Prejudice!”  
Cisco stopped in his tracks. “Fifteen?!”  
Cynthia nodded. “And my favorite is the Bollywood musical version!” she cringed in shame.  
“How many different ways can you watch one movie?” he demanded through his giggling.  
Cynthia shrugged. “It kinda helps if you just think of them as alternate universes!”  
He kept laughing and shook his head incredulously. Cynthia found herself staring. After a wonderfully simple date, walking with him now, he in his dark jacket and blue beanie, it felt like everything could be normal for them.   
If only she hadn't lied.  
If only she weren't lying to him now.  
Guilt would bubble up inside of her in these moments, and as the longing for him grew, so did the pain. All Cisco wanted was normalcy, some authenticity to show him that he was safe in being himself. And she tried to give that to him in herself as much as she could.  
All that was missing was her name.  
She opened her mouth, ready to tell him, momentarily convinced that the truth was going to let her have this, this beautiful and simple thing her movies called romance. But just as her voice hummed in her throat, Cisco's eyes lit up and he trotted ahead of her towards a small food cart in the square. The warm, delicious and sweet smell of churros wafted to her, and the feeling died in her just as quickly as it came. Cynthia drew closer as Cisco passed the vendor some cash, an old radio playing a bolero she hadn't heard in years.   
“So I know we just ate and all, but I have to have dessert!” Cisco told her with a smile. She felt like he was always smiling with her. How could a man be so warm?   
The man passed each of them a treat wrapped in wax paper. They gave him their thanks and sat on the wall, still near enough to hear his music. The warmth and sweetness of the snack did little to raise her spirits. As long as she hid the truth from him, there was only so far that they could go down this path together. And Cynthia knew she wanted more. Every step she took for the story just ended with her wanting so much more with him. Everything in her wanted to go home with him tonight, to feel his heat and his weight atop her, to wake up with her face nestled in his hair. To go home tomorrow with his scent still clinging to her skin and her real name on his lips.  
“Are you okay?” his voice cut into her thoughts. She tried to shake off her reverie and smile.  
“Oh, yeah, just…” she gestured towards the radio, “... brings back old memories.”  
Cisco looked at her softly. “You know you're not at all like anyone I've ever been with. You're different than I thought you'd be.”  
She looked to him questioningly.  
“I feel like you've got your own image to maintain,” he said, “This tough, take-no-shit kind of attitude. And I'm sure you are! But… you're also sweeter, and more sentimental than you let on.”  
He held her eyes with his, his gaze wistful and gleaming.  
“You're really… very beautiful, you know that?” his voice cracking a bit, “And I'm glad that someone like you wants to see me, the real me.”  
It was more than she could stand. For the first time all night, she took his gloved hand in hers and kissed him deeply. Sugar and cinnamon still clung to his lips, making his kiss sweet, and she suckled at his bottom lip as he'd done to hers that night in front of her apartment. His breath was warm and shuddering against her cheek as he nuzzled into her neck.  
“Maybe you'll let me see you more often?” she whispered.  
Cisco pulled away.  
“You never need an excuse to come see me,” he promised.  
It was the best she could do.  
For the story.


	10. Fear is to be shared...

In the days that followed, Cynthia utilized every available chance she had to fly to Ramon Industries. Every lunch break, every day off, she went to visit the prince in his tower. The first batch of Cisco's new wardrobe arrived, at a staggering six or seven grand for the lot, and it made for a good excuse to be with him.  
Despite what he said, Cynthia still needed an excuse to satisfy Ms. Tannhauser, his ever watchful guardian. The woman leered sternly at Cynthia at times through her cat eye glasses, like a schoolmarm in a kids movie. There were days when she would catch Cisco with his doctor in the med bay, quietly discussing a matter that she couldn't get Cisco to talk about. Cynthia would knock or clear her throat, and he would shoot to his feet, hurriedly rolling his shirt sleeve down and pretending that nothing had happened.  
The sight worried her, but no matter how much she tried to work his condition into their conversations, Cisco would dance around it. It's his business, not mine, she told herself, and so she busied herself with her stylist duties, all the better to keep the two of them distracted.  
Despite the fact that her cover was all a sham, Cynthia still had to take a measure of pride in what her work had turned out. Cisco looked fantastic, his shirts crisp and fitted, jackets and trousers tailored to perfection. She was unabashed in her admiration, and Cisco was far from bashful in accepting compliments.  
“Damn, my thighs look good!” he exclaimed, catching his figure in a shiny wall panel. “Look at this… check that out…” he growled to himself, lunging and squatting in ridiculous poses, rubbing himself for her amusement.  
“I'm starting to think there's no such thing as a bad color for you,” Cynthia confessed. And it was true; his new closet now contained suits and accessories in bold, youthful shades varying from bottle green to navy blue, and he looked incredible in all of them. Even the dark shirt he wore now, with its abstract print, didn't distract from his professional setting.  
“I know, huh,” he drawled. “All those other cottage cheese looking CEOs could only dream of looking this good!”  
Cynthia laughed.  
More than anything, it was invigorating to see Cisco's confidence spill out into his working relationships. Greeting colleagues with firm handshakes, compliments, and a dazzling smile, he left everyone shaken but smiling, obviously taken with Cisco Ramon's beguiling nature. Even Ms. Tannhauser had to admit that it was “beginning to feel like the old days”.  
But it was the old days that Cynthia had come here to learn about, and her attachment to Cisco had driven that point so far from her mind that Linda had to be the one to warn her.  
“You've lost track of yourself, Cyn,” she told her, shaking her head in disapproval. “Don't forget, you're Cynthia the reporter, not Cyndi the lovestruck stylist.”  
She hated admitting it, but Linda was right. Worse yet, she hated admitting that she was enjoying being Cyndi the lovestruck stylist far more these days than being Cynthia. Cynthia was a nobody in her field; Cyndi was at least appreciated by someone. But she minded her friend's warning, and several days after their first date, Cynthia worked up the nerve to ask him.  
“Does being here ever bother you?” she asked him one afternoon, casting an eye about his lab.  
Cisco looked confused.  
“I mean, after what happened here, does it ever bother you to keep working here?” she clarified. Cynthia half expected Cisco to snap at her, or else shut down and skirt the issue just as he did with his health, but his expression fell, and he seemed sad.  
He sighed deeply, and answered, “Sometimes… there's a lot of history here, and not all of it good.”  
“Like what?” she prompted softly. Cynthia was treading on thin ice, and she needed to be careful of how far she pushed.  
“I lost friends here,” he replied. “Good people, too. One of them right there.” He pointed to the bed in the med bay.  
“There?” Cynthia blurted, pretending to be surprised.  
“Mhm. Sweetest woman in the world! No one quite like her! And she got sick in the worst way. We tried to save her but…”  
“I'm sorry.”  
Cisco nodded. Something in his face gave Cynthia the feeling that he wanted to talk, so she kept quiet and let him continue.  
“You know grief is a strange thing,” he said thoughtfully, “There's people like my mom, who end up finding strength that they didn't think they had. And then there's strong people who just… fall apart at the seams.”  
“Your friend left someone behind?”  
“Yeah. Her husband. He was my friend, too. He could be a real hard ass but… she brought something out in him. I've never seen people in love like that…”  
“What happened to him?” Cynthia's heart hammered in her chest, knowing that age was finally getting close.  
“He lost it,” Cisco murmured, his eyes fixed on the floor. “He completely lost it, and we couldn't get him back. He became… obsessed with her last project, obsessed with finding a cure. He took things too far and we lost him.”  
“The incident?” She was so close…  
Cisco's head snapped up. His face was pale and his lips were trembling, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered, “Harrison, he… it wasn't ready, but he turned it on anyway and-”  
Cisco gasped suddenly, his eyes unfocused and blank.  
“Cisco?” Cynthia called to him, fear gripping her throat.  
His eyes rolled back and he cried out in agony.  
“Cisco!” she cried helplessly, Cisco tumbling from his chair and hitting the floor hard. Blood streamed from his nostrils and she panicked, with nothing to do but scream for help.  
\----  
Cynthia's face was before him one second, and gone the next, the blue strobing light blurring his vision, splitting his head open with pain.  
A memory floated to the forefront of his mind, but the perspective was all wrong. Cisco could see himself standing just beyond the threshold of the med bay, and he was scared. A man he once knew was within, frantically tying a strand of thick, rubber tubing around his bicep.  
No! Not this! Please! he willed, praying the vision would go away.  
“I promised…” Harrison was saying, “I promised I would do… whatever it takes…”  
He raised a huge, ghastly looking syringe, and Cisco watched himself spring forward in a panic.  
“No! That's not what she wanted!” his younger self screamed.  
It was too late. Harrison plunged the syringe into his veins savagely before Cisco could grab his wrist. The two men struggled, Harrison quickly overcoming the young Cisco, his face feral and murderous. The syringe was in his fist, the monstrous needle vibrating violently as it was driven closer and closer towards Cisco's heart, the young man not quite strong enough to stop it.  
Even in a vision, the terror overwhelmed him, and Cisco clapped his ears over his younger self's desperate cries for help.  
Two men burst into the room just as the needle began to pierce his skin, Hartley and Ronnie grabbing Harrison and forcefully hauling him off of his victim. Carla charged into the room, her face white as a sheet.  
“Strap him down!” she yelled.  
Everyone was yelling. Harrison roared in a fury, Ronnie and Hartley yelling to each other as they struggled with the straps. Cisco on the floor heaving and crying, Carla on her knees in front of him lifting his shirt to see the damage.  
“Cisco, can you hear me?” she yelled over the sound of the struggling men. “Cisco?”  
“Cisco!”  
The lights strobed again, the memory faded, and he was lying on the cold, hard floor, Cyndi and Carla hovering over him.  
“Cisco, are you with me?” Carla was asking him. The pain and fear washed over him in waves. He was shaking, and he clutched at his heart to make sure the syringe wasn't still there. He reached for his friend, and in a tremulous whisper, he tried to tell her what he saw.  
“He-he was here…” He started gasping uncontrollably.  
“Who was here, Cisco?” Carla pressed him calmly.  
“H-he’s still here…” Cyndi was standing over him with tears in her eyes, and he squeezed his own shut to spare himself the image.  
“Who was here, Cisco? What did you see?” Carla called again.  
With a great gulp of air, Cisco blurted out his answer, “Harrison!”  
\----  
Cynthia watched Ms. Tannhauser stiffen in shock at the revelation. Cisco was trembling violently on the floor with his eyes screwed shut, his fists frozen in midair as if he'd just fought someone off. The woman didn't move, but she told Cynthia, in a low, strained voice, “You can't be here, Miss Rodriguez.”  
Cynthia blinked in disbelief, anger flickering within her for a second. “To hell with that! I'm not leaving him!”  
The woman whirled on her, a cold, dark, fury etched into her features. “You cannot be here, Miss Rodriguez!” she growled. And Cynthia was suddenly afraid enough to listen. Grabbing her bag on the way out, Cynthia rushed back to the elevators, leaving Cisco and his doctor on the floor. The elevator doors chiming as they shut behind her, Cynthia felt free to let loose a choked sob. Hand clamped over her mouth, tears streaming down her face, she struggled to regain her composure in the wake of what she just witnessed.  
It all made sense now, why Cisco was so protective of this place, why he needed to monitor his stress, why a doctor was working for him as his assistant…  
Cisco was sick.  
Or rather, something was making him sick.  
And now, with the name coming straight from Cisco's own mouth, she had a better idea of what it was. Who it was.  
Rattled to her core, she seemed to float out of the building towards the parking lot. Sunlight warmed her tear streaked face, and now that she was outside, she hesitated. Cynthia slowly turned back to face the building, craning her neck upwards.  
I can't walk away, she told herself. The fear and emotion that flooded through her when it happened, when she watched his face contort in pain and blood gush from his nose… She feared a seizure or aneurysm had taken him right in front of her, and she was powerless to help him. In her anguish, she cried for him, but he couldn't hear her, wherever he was.  
Thank God Carla showed up when she did.  
She felt like she'd come dangerously close to losing him, and he didn't even know her name. Slowly, steadily, Cynthia began to walk back inside. She couldn't walk away from him now. That's not who she was. That's not what she was to him, not anymore. And something in that building was going to kill him if it wasn't stopped.  
And Cynthia was going to find out what it was.  
\----  
Carla Tannhauser had seen everything a doctor could see. Diseases, injuries, she'd treated them all. But there was no amount of training or experience that made watching young people waste away before their time any easier. Cisco Ramon lay in bed before her, a cruel echo of the friend she watched wither and die only a few years ago. Cisco was sleeping now, his tie and shirt open to help him breath unconstricted. He was too young, far too young for this.  
What have you done now, Harrison? she thought bitterly. As soon as Miss Rodriguez scampered away, she coaxed Cisco into telling her more of what he saw. It wasn't a memory she ever wanted recounted ever again.  
Tess’ death hit them all hard, but there was no comparing their grief with that of her husband's. Harrison Wells had been a proud man, with a genius intellect, and was always short on peers. Tess Morgan could go toe to toe with him better than anyone would even dare, and he loved her terribly for it. Cancer took his wife and his heart to the grave, and to Carla's great and everlasting shame, they never did get him the help he clearly needed.  
Even so, it was shocking to see what became of the man. Harrison grew obsessed with completing Tess’ particle accelerator, and with uncovering a foolproof cure for her disease. On the day that Cisco described, he'd caught his mentor pumping a whole host of experimental drugs into his own system, using himself as the guinea pig in his deadly quest for answers. Cisco tried to stop him, but the grief ridden genius turned on him in the worst way, trying to bury the drug tainted syringe square through the young man's heart.  
The memory of Cisco's screams of pain and terror still gave her the chills. Ronnie Raymond and Hartley Rathaway were there to contain their boss, while she desperately tried to calm Cisco and Harrison down. It was a terrible day.  
But the worst was yet to come.  
Carla heard the strike of heels on the floor and turned, Cyndi Rodriguez facing her from the threshold. The young woman's face was pale but determined, and she raised her chin resolutely, challenging her.  
“I don't care what you say,” the girl spoke, “This is where I'm supposed to be.”  
Young fool. Young, beautiful fools, the pair of them. But Carla gave the girl a curt nod, and watched as she dumped her bag down, pulled her coat off, and draped it across his bare chest. Carla had warned the girl away from Cisco, for this and so many other reasons, but she couldn't deny that seeing the two of them together lately had warmed her heart. Cisco was blooming again, and there was something tender and genuine in how Cyndi smoothed back his hair and gingerly wiped at the blood on his face.  
“I've never fully trusted you, Miss Rodriguez,” she said softly. The young woman stiffened. “I know you're hiding something from us… but you care for him, that much is clear.”  
“What's wrong with him?” came the shaking response.  
Carla sighed deeply. Doctor-patient privilege was tricky where loved ones were concerned, and Carla was convinced now that Cyndi Rodriguez was loved. She deserved to know.  
“The truth is, I don't know,” she answered. “This is the second incident. I don't know what's causing it, but I know what it's doing to him.”  
“Is he dying?”  
“No,” Carla answered firmly, willing it to be true, “but there's no telling how many of these he can take.”  
Cyndi seemed to absorb that for a moment. “Do you still think it's just stress?”  
Carla considered it. “I first characterized this as a mini stroke. Now stress, grief, trauma, these could all be contributing factors, if this is indeed a stroke. But it doesn't account for the visions. Altogether, I don't know what to make of this.”  
“What about external factors?” Cyndi asked.  
“What are you suggesting?”  
“The S.T.A.R Labs explosion!” the young woman exclaimed. “What if some residual energy from that has been affecting him? Like how radiation poisoning works?”  
Carla raised a brow. “That's certainly an imaginative theory, but I doubt it. All of his tests are clear.”  
“What if there's no test for this?” Cyndi said passionately.  
“Also a possibility.”  
“What if it's the ghost?”  
Carla rolled her eyes hard and crossed her arms. “Let's be realistic here, Miss Rodriguez-”  
“I know what it sounds like! But something is happening to us in here and you can't deny that!”  
Carla narrowed her eyes at the girl. “What do you mean ‘us’?”  
“I-,” she choked, her face coloring at last. “The day… that you told me Cisco wasn't taking visitors… I didn't listen, and I came up here to look for him-”  
“You defied me and came back up here?” Carla accused her heatedly.  
“Yes! I-I wanted to be with him, okay, that's not the point! The point is, that when I was up here, alone, something grabbed me from behind! Something with a blue light!”  
Carla blinked in surprise. “Cisco says he sees a blue light when he seizes…”  
“It's connected!” Cyndi concluded confidently.  
Carla went quiet and wrestled with it. She couldn't quite dismiss it. After all, this was Central City, where a man was running around faster than the speed of light. But this was unlike anything she'd ever heard of, and it was beyond her expertise. She blew out a breath.  
“In any case, we might have to cancel the banquet. I don't feel comfortable putting Cisco through the strain.”  
“No…” his voice came out feebly. Cisco was stirring awake, trying to raise himself up. Carla and Cyndi rushed to ease him back down carefully.  
“We can't cancel…” he said, barely audible, “... my mom is coming…”  
“It's okay, Cisco,” Carla told him, “We can reschedule, your mom will understand-”  
“No!” he yelped, scaring them both, “We need to carry on… like everything's normal… my mom is coming…”  
He dozed off again, and the two women shared a worried glance.  
“We have less than two weeks to change his mind,” Carla said, and she hoped against hope that it was possible.


	11. Melinda

Cisco Ramon, billionaire, mysterious and handsome. Dressed in his best tux, gazing out a window at the dark cityscape. Brooding, as billionaires do. With his riches, it was only a matter of time…  
Before she arrived…  
“Mister Ramon!” she purred from behind him. He’d been waiting for her.  
“Catwoman!” he welcomed the petite, leather clad vixen who, strangely, looked just like Cyndi Rodriguez. “I knew you couldn't resist my fortune!”  
“It's not your money I'm after, Mr. Ramon!”   
Cyndi's Catwoman sprung into his arms and nuzzled into his neck as he sipped from the martini that definitely wasn't in his hand a second ago. He set the empty glass on his desk and swept the feline temptress off her feet, a roaring fire inexplicably appearing behind them. He leaned in for the kiss…  
“... temperatures dipping into the low forties today, low thirties in the shade! And now to Chopper Dave with the traffic report!”  
Cisco slapped his hand down onto the alarm clock, bitter and frustrated.  
“Great timing,” he muttered grumpily. Groaning in discomfort, he pulled himself up and rested his feet on the cold floor. “Another day…”  
It had been four days since his second episode, and he was still adjusting to his doctor's orders. Eight to ten full hours of sleep, no caffeine, low amounts of sugar, thirty minutes of light exercise or yoga, and most importantly, “take it easy at work!”  
It was torture. Cisco fixed himself a bland protein and fresh vegetable breakfast, slipped into one of the gorgeous Marc Jacobs suits that Cyndi got him and a soft white shirt with miniature whales, and headed out. He spent hours “taking it easy” under the stern and watchful eye of Ms. Carla, that was, until about 5:30, when Cyndi would arrive to save him. His caretaker thoughtfully turned her back on them to give them the opportunity to greet each other lips first, and when he had her small frame in his arms, and those perfect lips on his, it made getting up in the morning more than worth it.  
“Have you had lunch? I brought you lunch!” Cyndi chatted hurriedly. “This is a uh, Garden Green salad with almonds, pecans, berries, and what is it… oh cherry pomegranate dressing! Does it meet the doctor's approval?”  
She held the plastic bowl aloft for Carla to see.   
“I'll allow it!” the woman returned, and Cisco thought he could detect a hint of affection in his friend's face.  
Cisco stared into the bowl of greenery forlornly and plucked at it with a fork.  
“I know you two just want to take care of me and all but, I don't have heart disease! I think I can have a burger every now and again!”  
“It's just for a week, Mr. Ramon, you can handle it,” Carla admonished him.  
Cynthia pursed her lips the way she always did when she was holding something back, and to him, she looked a little embarrassed. She was trying, he knew, but as sweet as it was, anyone had to admit that perhaps she was out of her element. Cyndi struck him as a problem solver, not necessarily a nurturer.   
I must have scared her bad, he thought, and he made a note to make it up to her somehow. In the meantime, he chewed on his grass like a good boy.  
“It's a tasty salad!” he lied, anything if it meant wiping that worried look off of her face. Cisco hated seeing people stress or fret over him, and he had an irrepressible knack for going overboard with his jokes and his mannerisms when trying to diffuse situations such as these.  
“Psssst!” he hissed at her in an exaggerated whisper, loud enough for Carla to hear, “Did you remember to sneak me some cookies?”  
“Mr. Ramon…” Carla warned, “Something you'd like to share with the class?”  
“Bush did 9/11!” he said firmly, and Cyndi finally cracked a smile. Out of the corner of his eye, Carla quietly moved into the med bay to give them privacy and Cisco didn't waste a beat, regaling Cyndi with all of the candies and meats he was going to tear into once his week of penance was over.  
“Just imagine, Cyn… wait, is it alright if I call you Cyn?”  
She nodded, a little pink in the cheeks.  
“Imagine… you, me, the Five Pound Burrito challenge at Hidalgo's Taquería…”  
“I'm not eating a five pound burrito with you!”  
“Oh you're not there to eat! I just want you to take pics of me, while I eat, to send to Carla! And, you know, to rub my shoulders and cheer me on…”  
Cyndi smirked. “You don't really take me for the shoulder rubbing type of girl, do you?”  
“Hmm, you're right…” he said thoughtfully, “Maybe… I'm the shoulder rubbing type of girl…”  
Cyndi laughed openly and Cisco had to pause for a moment to marvel at perfection. Jesus, she's so beautiful!  
“Whatchu lookin’ at?” she teased.  
“Huh? Oh, nothing, just thinking, I wish I could talk to girls like this in high school.”  
“Mmm, high school,” she nodded. “We would not have been friends.”  
He dropped his eyes back down to his food and faked a heartbroken look, “Yeah, girls like you never went for boys like me.”  
Cyndi got to her feet and walked around behind him, smoothing her hands onto his shoulders and giving them a light squeeze. “We eventually learn from our mistakes,” she murmured in his ear.  
And this is why I keep having Catwoman dreams!  
Cisco dropped his fork and leaned against her, tilting his head back for the kiss. No sooner had they pulled away when a voice echoed down the hallway, feminine, shrill, and all too familiar.  
“Cisco-o-o!”  
Carla shot out of the med bay to intercept the tall woman and Cisco jumped to his feet, pulling away from Cyndi quickly just as Melinda Torres stormed into the cortex.  
Dressed in her usual pink, from her blouse, to her handbag, to her Jimmy Choo stilettos, Melinda towered over everyone in the room, and her condescending gaze let anyone who saw her know that she knew how to use it.  
But Cisco knew firsthand that her stature wasn't the only asset Melinda knew how to use. Her eyes took each of them in turn.  
“Cisco. Secretary.” Her eyes passed over Carla and settled on Cyndi, lip curling slightly as she did so. “Secretary number two, I'm assuming.”  
“Cyndi,” Cyndi introduced herself through gritted teeth.  
“Cute,” Melinda mocked, and Cisco was afraid to turn around lest he see what Cyndi looked like fuming.  
“Melinda,” he tried instead, “what're you doing here?”  
“I'm here to discuss our plans for the banquet night, of course! I had to assume that my invitation got lost in the mail!” she answered, her eyes narrowing.  
Cisco shared a glance with Carla, both recalling when they deliberately struck Melinda's name from the guest list after their last blow up.  
Melinda strolled closer to him slowly, taking in his new look and biting her lip.  
“You're looking good, Cisco,” she admired. “Someone finally taught you how to dress!”  
His cheeks reddened, but he forced a smile anyway.  
“Hermosa, let's not do this!” he tried to say placatingly.  
“Mamón, let's!” she countered, matching his tone. “After all we've been through together, the very least you could've done is extend an invitation for your first anniversary banquet to your girlfriend!”  
He didn't bother to correct her, a decision he'd later regret, instead saying, “Melinda, I thought you and I made ourselves very clear the last time we saw each other-”  
“Oh, honey, you know we always get carried away!” Melinda drew close and slid her hands atop his shoulders. Unseen to Cisco, Cyndi bristled and crossed her arms.  
She wasn't wrong, he knew. The two of them had broken up, and made up, passionately, more than a handful of times. And if it wasn't for Cyndi, he couldn't say for sure if he would've welcomed her back now. But now, things were different. Cisco stepped back and let her arms drop.  
“I don't know what you thought you'd accomplish here, but you're not going with me,” he told her firmly.  
Melinda glowered at him. “And just what do you think it's going to say about you that you showed up to your own big night alone? Better yet, what do you think people are going to say?”  
“Who says he'll be alone?”  
Cyndi's question left his neck burning.  
Cyndi stood behind him, eyes blazing, and for a moment, Cisco was convinced that she would fly at Melinda if he so much as stood aside.  
Melinda was no better.  
“And who are you, Fun Size?” she spat.  
Cyndi's mouth opened angrily but Cisco cut her off.  
“She's no one to you, Melinda! Now, please, go!”  
“And my invite?” she demanded.  
“We'll see, Melinda! Just leave!”  
She scoffed, shaking her head at him in disgust. Her eyes landed on Cyndi.  
“You never did know what was best for you, Cisco!”  
And with that, she was gone.  
Cisco and Carla gave a sigh of relief and relaxed.  
“Jeez…” he breathed, turning back to Cyndi and his salad, but the woman was staring him down in simmering anger.   
“What?” he asked, clueless.  
Her voice was low and deadly. “I'm ‘no one’?”   
“No! No one- to her! You're no one to her, I said- you know what I meant!” He was losing and he could feel it.   
Cyndi’s jaw tensed, and she seemed to grind her teeth against the fury she no doubt wanted to unleash on him. She reached for her bag and plopped her keys inside.  
“Cyn, c'mon, it's nothing,” he tried. “I told you, she and I are old history!”  
She scoffed at him, too. “Cisco,” Cyndi uttered menacingly, “You practically yanked yourself away from me. What? Were you afraid she'd see us?”  
His eyes fluttered closed in frustrated realization. She moved to leave, and Cisco couldn't find the words in him that would make her stay.  
Cyndi now gone, it was just Carla, her judgmental stare, and a bland salad keeping him company.  
“We were having a good lunch,” he said forlornly. Carla rolled her eyes, but then her face grew pensive.  
“I'm aware that this isn't the best time…” she said slowly, “but there's something I feel I need to bring to your attention.”  
Cisco sighed. “What is it?”  
She beckoned, and he dragged his feet into the med bay with her.  
“With everything that's been happening to you, I've found myself thinking a lot about Tess…” she said, and Cisco felt his heart sink. “After she died, I took to reading through her medical records from time to time. To reassure myself that there was nothing we could've done to save her.”  
“There wasn't anything we could do to save her.”  
“I know that, but as I said, it's to reassure myself. Only just now, I went to get the file and…”  
He watched as she reached for the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and opened it, a wide, three inch gap between files glaring at him. His brow furrowed in confusion.  
“Her file is gone,” Carla explained.  
“Well, what does that mean? You sure you didn't just leave it somewhere?”  
She crossed her arms. “You know I'm not careless with my records.”  
That was the truth, he knew.  
“Okay then… what're you suggesting?”  
Carla shifted uncomfortably, and he had a feeling he already knew where she was going.  
“I know that you've come to like her, but…”  
“C’mon, Carla…”  
“But! Miss Rodriguez freely admitted to me that she's been up here by herself. And she's the only one besides the two of us who comes and goes as she pleases.”  
The Flash comes and goes as he pleases, Cisco thought bitterly, but Carla didn't know about any of that.  
“Why would she even take the file?” Cisco demanded. Carla shrugged.  
“We don't really know her, Cisco. Who knows what all of her intentions are.”  
Cisco felt a pulse of anger well within him, frustration at the idea that this could be happening to him. Again.  
“Carla, please, after Melinda, I really don't want to hear this!”  
“I don't say this to hurt you, I just thought you should know.”  
He raised his hands behind his head and sighed deeply with his eyes closed.   
She was wrong, she had to be.   
Please, God, let her be wrong.  
\----  
Cynthia let her anger carry her all the way down to the ground level, through the atrium, and out into the parking lot before it occurred to her just how stupid she was being.  
Sure, Cyn, storm out on your not-boyfriend who you're secretly investigating for your not-exposé, that makes a lot of sense!  
Already at her car door, good old stubbornness won out over her sudden self awareness, and she wasn't about to hike back up there looking like an idiot. So she sat in her car and fumed instead.  
It shouldn't piss her off like this. It shouldn't! Only a few days ago, she was standing by his bedside, taking care of him. And Cisco wasn't wrong, she was no one! No one to Melinda Torres. No one to Cisco Ramon.  
Cyndi Rodriguez, was no one.  
Cynthia Reynolds wanted to be someone. Someone in her field, someone in the world, someone in Cisco's life.   
But Cyndi's the one making it…  
Maybe that was what burned her up the most, that Cisco brought out all that was best in her, and it would never be enough. Because it was Cyndi, and not Cynthia, that he wanted. At least Melinda was upfront with who she was.  
A fat, hot tear spilled down her cheek. That was it, she couldn't stand to be there a second longer, and stupid or not, she drove home.  
\----  
Melinda Torres had no problem letting people know who she was, a consequence, she thought, of spending all of her life under the pressure of what people thought she should be.  
So pretty! So skinny! So tall! She should be a model!  
So sweet! So helpful! She'd make a great wife!  
So tender! She'd make a great mother!  
So smart… so passionate… well, it's nice to have hobbies, darling!  
People could condemn her all they wanted; what they saw as bitterness, she saw as ambition. What they saw as manipulating, she saw as calculating. To them, heartless. To her, driven.  
And so, she was who she was, and she didn't care to hide that. And she wasn't going to lose what she worked for.  
When she met Cisco Ramon, they were kids, wide eyed and innocent. In high school, she saw his genius even when his mother didn't. He wanted to change the world, and it made her proud that she could be there to help him do that.  
College was where things began to change. Cisco was smart, and gifted to be sure, but he started to lose focus on his future. Changing the world was all well and good, but the world needs to know who you are, and Cisco seemed happy to create in relative obscurity.  
“Tesla was a genius, but he spent his whole career getting ripped off!” she remembered telling him. “Being brilliant is only part of it! The rest is good PR!”  
He didn't listen, and a few years later, he paid the price, having to sever ties with a company that wouldn't let him thrive. S.T.A.R Labs was a good opportunity, but it would only ever be Wells’ money horse. So Melinda got to work, pushing Cisco to create, to market himself right. And voila! He came out a billionaire! And soon after came Ramon Industries.  
Yes, this was hers, she was part of this, and Cisco wasn't going to push her away.  
Cisco, she could handle. Ms. Tannhauser was a tough old bird, but she was a dedicated grandma now, and Melinda could work her if need be.  
But Cisco's pretty little half pint snack was a problem she needed to deal with now.  
Cyndi… We'll see just who you are, Cyndi!


End file.
